The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

"Troost me, lad -- Oi've gaaaaht a plan." -- Uncle Frank.

Frank King ran into a similar situation in the mid-twenties, when Skeezix's birth mother surfaced out of nowhere and tried to get him away from Walt in a custody battle that went on for months. But Walt didn't have Francis X. Leary in his corner.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Troost me, lad -- Oi've gaaaaht a plan." -- Uncle Frank.

Frank King ran into a similar situation in the mid-twenties, when Skeezix's birth mother surfaced out of nowhere and tried to get him away from Walt in a custody battle that went on for months. But Walt didn't have Francis X. Leary in his corner.

Frank seems confident and I doubt he would be if he didn't have a good plan as Ma or Alice (or both) will kill him if he messes up. My guess remains he gets something on them - dirt from their past - that shuts them down completely. Again I'm just guessing, but she didn't hightail it across the country during the war just for fun. There's dirt in her past. And I'll bet Frank already knows all of Hop's skeletons.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(The world is very much his oyster, as Uncle Frank saunters down Rogers Avenue, waving to the firemen loitering in the open doorway of Engine Company 249 as he passes by. "Ahhhh, wooould ye loike to swiiiing aaahna starr," he sings to himself in a not-displeasing baritone. "Caarry mooonbeams hoom inna -- G'day t'ye, Mrs. Donovan! Hoo's th' barrsoitis? -- 'Aan' be bettar aaahf than ye aaar -- aahr would ye' raather be a pig!' He pauses at the corner of Rogers and Midwood, and glances into the open door of Dewes Delicatessen. "G'day t'ye!' he calls inside to the counterman. 'Hooow's ye caaarned beef t'day!' The counterman shrugs, and Uncle Franks chuckles. "Saaaame as aaahlways thin!" he calls behind him, as he crosses Midwood and, passing the Flatbush Pharmacy, pulls open the screen door of Lieb's Candy Store. "Ye think yarrr sittin' pretty hoy in th' catbarrd seat, do ye?" Ma is roaring into the telephone as the screen door skeens closes. "Well, oi'l tell ye soomthin, Hops Gaffney, an' ye'll know ye been told!" Uncle Frank raises a finger to his lips and beckons for Ma to step aside. He takes the receiver and leans in close to the mouthpiece. "It'll be aaaahn th' way in a few days," he declares in a low, even tone. "Ye'll know when it's been sent." He cuts off the conversation and gently returns the receiver to its hook. "HMPH!!" hmps Ma. "Ye lettin' that groobin' little weasel roon roooghshahhd over ye!" "Noothin' oov th' koind," dismisses Uncle Frank, as Ma unfurls a glass of two-cents-plain and places it on the counter next to a roll of Tums. "Ev'rything is moovin' roit along as I've..." He is interrupted, however, by the rasping of the screen door, opening to admit a small, pale man in a rumpled suit. "Ahhhh," greets Uncle Frank. "Mistarr Moran! Ye gaaaht me message!" "Yeh," yehs the man, his eyes darting nervously about the store as if in fear of some predator about to leap from the top of the magazine rack. "I PAID Danny that ten dollehs, Misteh Leary," he quails. "I got t'receipt n' ev'ryt'ing! Butcha gotta gimme some time t'get t'rest! Rent's due t'is week!" "Ahhh," smiles Uncle Frank expansively, "A mere troifle." He glances over at Ma, snapping her dishrag with a bit more emphasis than might otherwise be appropriate. "Coom alaang with me," he beckons to Mr. Moran. "Let's yoo an' me take a little waalk." "Um--" Moran stammers. "Look, I do'want no trouble, I come in good fait'...." "As well ye should," reassures Uncle Frank, slapping his arm around the man's shoulder. "In fact, ye will be happy t'hear what Oi've got to say," he continues as they step toward the door. "Oi've gaaaaaht a bit of a business praaapasition faar ye...")

German forces on the eastern side of Italy appeared to have made a general withdrawal northward today as patrols of the British Eighth Army in the southern Appenines found large sections undefended, and Polish troops in the Adriatic sector crossed the Arzilla River only three miles from the heavily-fortified Gothic Line. Allied reconnaisance units moving northward found no signs of the enemy up to eight miles north of the main positions.

Chairmen of the American, British, and Soviet delegations at Dumbarton Oaks are expected today to lift somewhat the lid of secrecy on their discussions of the particulars of a new world security organization. There was no indication of exactly how much would be made known by the chairmen of the progress of the talks intended to find common ground among the three leading Allied powers on how postwar security will be structured, but it did appear that they were prepared today to abandon the policy of absolute secrecy which has heretofore kept the press isolated from the discussions.

("Good," declares Sally, slapping the paper on her lap as the train rumbles homeward"One less'a t'em bums t'betteh. Takin' food right outa babies mout's wit'tat stuff." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Y'know, y'neveh t'ink'a t'at 'till ya gotta kid y'self. Changes a lotta t'ings, don' it?" "Y'know what's funny t'ough?" muses Sally. "How many times y'see a stawry 'bout some bookie gett'n arrested an' it toins out t'be some ol' lady runnin' a canny stoeh? I mean, you seen'awl'em joiks hang aroun' oveh t' Schriebstien's. Y'need t'use t'phone, an' y'gotta stan' on line f'haff'noueh behin' awlese loafehs putt'n down bets. I bet ol' lady Schriebstein is mixed right up innat." "Yeh," agrees Alice, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. "Jeez," she adds, "t'ese trains get hot." "I'll say t'is f'Ma," asserts Sally. "She runs a clean jernt. Why, you know what she'd do if awlem charactehs she got hangin' roun'neh was putt'n down bets? She'd t'row a stool at'm. Run'm right out t'dooeh." "Lissen, Sal," interjects Alice. "Open'nat window, will yeh? I'm dyin' in'eeh." "Heh," snickers Sally. "Stop onna way home an' getcha some Lydia Pinkham's!" "Hmph," hmphs Alice...)

(Why does this feel like something out of "Sparky Watts?")

(Slackers! Turn those stovepipes in for scrap!)

More than a thousand school-age bond sellers will be guests of Branch Rickey today at Ebbets Field to watch the Dodgers take on the Phillies. Each of the young salesmen sold at least five Series E bonds under a plan designed by Borough President John Cashmore in cooperation with leading Brooklyn banks. 350 schools in the borough took part, selling more than $4,500,000 in bonds.

(GO BROWNS!!!!!! Oh, and jeez, Eddie, try to smile. Sure they don't appreciate good fiddling in St. Paul, but this is Brooklyn!)

Sgt. Joe DiMaggio, who is spending the war playing service ball in Hawaii, is in a base hospital recovering from a recent illness. Upon his release he expects to try his hand at umpiring.

(Point of order: if you hate the way you look to the point where you won't go out without a veil, why would you have a large framed photo of yourself?)

(Love Makes All Kinds Of Families.)

("Oh wait, that was a chocolate-coated peanut.")

("THAT WAS MY LAST DOLLAR!")

("He'll be so glad to know Bo's been accepted into the war-dog program!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

HInkey dinkey parley voo!

I am sure that when Mr. Knight finally concludes his earthly career, his obituary will remind us all of that time when he did a spirited headstand at the Met.

Is there any other kind?

"Ra-hally!"

"Don't get them started on Artie Shaw!"

"Ah -- must you wear that flower in your hair, dear? It's terribly inappropriate for a young matron."

That's no way to to talk about your own mother!

"Hey Dunkie, how'd you like a tour of the front lines?"

Well there's a message that'll never reach its destination...

There isn't anyone in this house who ISN'T a troll.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I won'eh weh we awr?" sighs Joe, clamping his helmet to his head as the rattling truck hits another intersection in the vast network of ruts tearing up what remains of the road. "Y'helmet won' bounce on yo' haid like that," advises the Corporal, ignoring the question, "if'n yuh weauh yo' cap unduh'rit." "I triedt'at," exhales Joe, "an' it was too hot." "Then," dismisses the Corporal, "yo' jus' gon' haftuh suffuh. Woe is you!" "I still wondeh weah we awr," repeats Joe. "Does awla France look like t'is?" "I ain't seen no mouh'n'it than you," shrugs the Corporal. "I neveh gone so lawng in me life wit'out seein' nut'n woit' lookin' at," sighs Joe. "Cep'tat time we went t' As'bry Pawrk." "Wawr's lahk that," agrees the Corporal...)

British 8th Army troops in the Adriatic sector advanced on a broad front today to within two miles or less of the Gothic Line, and were expected momentarily to begin their long-awaited assault upon the heavy concrete and steel fortifications built by the Germans to defend Northern Italy. While a British destroyer shelled the Pesaro area, Adriatic anchor of the Gothic Line, British and Polish forces launched a drive which rapidly took on the proportions of a general offensive and pushed the crack first German parachute division from the last ridge in front of the fortifications.

The United States, Great Britain, and the Soviet Union today appeared ready to hear an early bid from Gen. Charles deGaulle to give France a voice in the formulation of the postwar world security organization. It is generally understood that at some yet unspecified time, France will take her place as a permanent member of the world council alongside the US, Britain, Russia, and China, thus placing the responsibility for world peace under the control of a "Big Five" instead of a "Big Four." DeGaulle has been emphasizing for months that neither the peace terms for Germany nor the future world organization can be properly planned without French participation.

("That Durooochar!" sneers Ma. "A foine example he is farr children with his noo-account Hoolywood friends!" "Tarrible," nods Uncle Frank. "Watch things, will ye Francis?" directs Ma. "I'm gooin up an' check on Leonora, make sure she ain't gotten inta noothin' she shooldn't." "Mm," replies Uncle Frank. Ma heads up the stairs as the screen door skeens open. "Ah!" ahs Uncle Frank, a grin spreading across his face. "Mistarr Moran!" "Um," stammers Moran, his eyes darting once more about the store, "I -- uh -- done like ya ast." He reaches inside his rumpled jacket and withdraws a brown envelope. "It's awl heeh," he declares, handing the envelope to Uncle Frank. "Ev'ryt'ing t'at was inna files. An' awlso a -- blank -- like ya ast for." "Ye got th' right one?" mutters Uncle Frank as he rapidly scans the papers. "Th' one ye used in 1938?" "Oh yeh," nods Moran. "I double checked, jus' like y'said. Ev'ryt'ing'll match up." "An' ye sure," squints Uncle Frank, indicating one of the papers, "this is th' ooonly woon ye had on file? Tharr ain' noo oothars?" "Honest, Misteh Leary," insists Moran. "I checked an' double checked ev'y't'ing. Ev'yt'ing t'eh was, you got." "An'," continues Uncle Frank, "ye ain' gaaahn'ta have noo trooble slippin' th' new one in when Oi get it to ye?" "It's a cinch," asserts Moran. "Nobody looks innem files 'nless t'ey got a reason to, an'ney wouldn' know t'diff'ence if sump'n been changed out. I can slip it inneh like I said, an' nobody's eveh gonna be t'wiseh, honest." "Oi'll hold ye to that," warns Uncle Frank, slipping the envelope into his own pocket. "Oi'll have th' new one farr ye t'marrah. Coom by here at three tharrty." "I gotta be caehful, Misteh Leary," protests Moran. "I can't be slippin' out unless I got a reason I can tell'm. I can't go t'dentis' ev'ry day." "No," shrugs Uncle Frank, "Oi s'pose not. Aahhl roit, harr's what we'll do. At three tharrty t'maara, you will need t'visit th' rest room. My boy Danny will be tharr waitin' farr ye. He'll give ye th' -- document, an' you will putchee name to a receipt. In woon week, a sarrrrtain parrty will coom to th' coontar down tharr an' ask farr a copy of that document. If she receives it an' aaahl is in aaardar, Oi will send ye yarr note marked paid in fool." "It means my jawb if I get caught," trembles Mr. Moran. "Then," frowns Uncle Frank, "doon't get caught.")

(Let's get all these French Underground movies out now!)

Reader Beatrice E. Packard writes in to argue in favor of women having representation at all peace conferences, especially since women are not pointedly NOT represented at the ongoing Dumbarton Oaks conference. "Are the men fearful of the propositions that might be offered by women?" she challenges. "Or do they believe that women are nonentities?"

(Hey Paul, I think Camilli might be able to use you in Oakland.)

The Kansas City Monarchs roar into Dexter Park tonight to face the Bushwicks for a game expected to draw the biggest night crowd of the season at Woodhaven. When last the Kansas City squad came to town, on July 4th, over ten thousand turned out to watch. The game begins at 8:45 pm.

("Cynical and old!" WELL WE SHORE DON'T WANT NUNNER THAT IN THIS TOWN!)

(Right from the horse's mouth.)

(Isn't it uncomfortable sitting on the desk like that?)

(Yeah, not a good idea. Just slip it under his door.)

(Poor, poor Kitty.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...


Hell hath no fury, I am sure, like Mrs. Blanche Zuckerman of 396 Montgomery Street.

Valentine's been throwing dirty magazines in the sewer? And here I thought he was a clean Commissioner.

Well isn't that convenient.

If you had to boil Mr. Gray's personal creed down to a single phrase, it would have to be "Eh? Who says so?"

"And what do you mean BY THAT? Get going, you slacker!"

Yep, she'll have a cooking show on television and have millions of friends.

Settle down, kid.

ANYTHING TO SHUT THEM UP

"Taxicab? Don't be ridiculous. Start walking."

And he didn't even need a piece of string.

 

[Fading Fast]

"It means my jawb if I get caught," trembles Mr. Moran. "Then," frowns Uncle Frank, "doon't get caught."

A tear nearly came to my eye as Frank sounded just like he was channeling my long-dead father's style of advice giving.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ahhl roit," exhales Ma, addressing a cocky youth in a striped t-shirt, rolled dungarees, and a whoopie cap. "Ten cents each aaahn 4-4-8, 5-9-0, an' 5-7-0, straight play." She enters the numbers in a Big Chief tablet open before her on the counter, followed by the youth's initials. "Yarrr th' fifth woon t'come in t'day t'play these noombars," muses Ma, secreting the tablet in an empty ice cream compartment. The boy snickers, indicating the front page of the Eagle. "Ah," nods Ma. "Supaaaarstitions an' oomens. Well, tharr good farr business, Oi guess..." She shakes her head as the boy struts out, the screen door banging closed behind him, just as Uncle Frank descends the stairs from the apartment above. "Oi am aaahf ahhn a bit oova trip," he declares, adjusting his necktie in the mirror behind the counter. "Dooon't wait oop farr me farr suppar." "Y'aaare, are ye?" queries Ma, cocking a suspicious eyebrow. "Oi am," nods Uncle Frank. Oi am catchin' an aaaftarnoon bus to Parsippany, New Jarrsey. Goin' to look at soom second-hand coppar poipe b'farr it goos to th' scrappar." "Ah," ahs Ma, her voice exuding suspicion. "An' what d'ye have in yarr pocket tharr," she queries, pointing to a thick envelope covered in postage stamps. "Oooh, joost soomthin' t'drap in th' mail," smiles Uncle Frank, adjusting his hat to just the right rakish angle. "Joost payin' a bill." "What bill?" frowns Ma, her arms akimbo. "Ohhhh," dismisses Uncle Frank, "joost a bill. Caahl it aaaaahperatin' expenses." Ma sighs, as Uncle Frank smooths his rampant eyebrows with a moistened finger. "Oi hope ye know what yaaaar doin', Francis Leary," she scowls. "Ye better naaaht leave no loose ends." "Not a woon," promises Uncle Frank. "Leave a loit barrnin' in th' windarr farr me," he sings out, blowing her a kiss as he exits. "Oi'll be bound," exhales Ma, as an elderly woman in a moth-eaten sweater totters in. "Yes momm," she greets, resuming her business expression. "I vant, please," the woman requests, "feefty cent ahhn 4-8-8, 5-9-0, aand 5-7-0 to caaaambeenate, please." Ma exhales, reaches for her tablet, and writes down the bet....)

On the eve of the fifth anniversary of the European War, there is a growing sentiment in London, in both official and unofficial quarters, that the war in this theatre could be over in a little over a month if the Allied drive benefits from both good weather and good battle breaks. Even the most conservative observers concede that the next five weeks should see the prime power of Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich broken forever, even if some few fanatics retire into the mountains and forests to continue guerilla warfare past that point. Two years of continuous retreats on the Russian, Italian, and now the French fronts have stripped the Germans of vast amounts of fighting equipment, rail transport lines, and industrial manufacturing capacity, and the fighting strength of the once-mighty Wehrmacht has been slashed from 8,000,000 men at the height of Nazi power in 1940 to scarcely 2,000,000 today.

("Russ Columbo," sighs Sally, from behind dipped eyelids. "Whatta damn shame t'at was. R'membeh when he'd sing 'I"m Justa Prisoneh'ra Love?' Make ya weak inna knees." "Y'eveh t'row ya skivvies at 'im?" snickers Alice. "Shuddup," Sally snaps, her face reddening. "He was good, but he was'n'AT good." "Ahhh," scoffs Alice, "ya sucha mouldy fig. Y'gotta get wit't'imes, Sal. Sinatra. T'at's t'boy." "Pffft," pffts Sally. "He ain' no Vallee, he ain' no C'lumbo, he ain' no Crawsby even." "Y'gotta admit," argues Alice, "he's got SUMP'n." "Hmph," scoffs Sally. "Whispehrin' Jack Smith, maybe." "S'funny," shrugs Alice. "I remembeh Joe said once he neveh liked no croonehs. He'd ra'teh heeh t'em hotcha sing'ehs, y'know? Zelma O'Neal, Mawrtheh Raye, t'at kin'a t'ing." "Ahhh, ya full'vit," snorts Sally. "He neveh said t'at." "In fack," trolls Alice, "he once tol' me one reason he married ya was t'at ya remin'ed 'im of Zelma O'Neal." Sally pauses. "Really?" she marvels. "He said t'at?" "He did," nods Alice. "He neveh seen Zelma O'Neal innis life," scoffs Sally. "On'y Brawdway show he eveh seen inn'is life is Hellzapoppin'." "He seen'eh inna movies," Alice insists. "He seen'eh innat movie one time singin'at sawng, 'I Wanna Be Bad.' Dancin' aroun' wit' red devils an' fieh, inna bat'in suit wit' feat'ehs on it. An'nee said she looked jus' like you." "I neveh danced aroun' inna bat'in suit wit' feat'ehs on it wit' no red devils an' fieh!" yells Sally, as heads turn thruout the train and she flushes deeply in response. "Dammit," growls Sally. "WHY do ya do t'at t'me?" "No good reason," snickers Alice, before erupting into deep hearty laughter.)

(In a men's room in a certain Worth Street office building in Manhattan, Danny Leary leans into the mirror and applies a toothpick to a morsel remaining from an on-the-run frankfurter lunch, just as the door swings open to admit a certain jittery party. "Right awn time," observes Danny, his eyes flicking from his watch to Mr. Moran's pale, terrfied face. "Let's m-m-make t'is fast," Moran stammers. Danny parks the toothpick in the corner of his mouth and emits a derisive chuckle as he withdraws a small brown evelope from his inner pocket. Moran takes it without a word and tucks it into his own pocket as he steps back toward the door. Gripping the handle, he pauses. "Tell y' ol' man," he directs, in a quavering whisper, "I ain' doin' nut'n like t'is again." "Yeh," snickers Danny. "I'll tell 'im." Moran exhales visibly and pulls open the door. "Hey Moran," calls Danny. "Y'f'gettin' sump'n." Moran freezes, his face a mask of nervous fear. "Y'f'got," laughs Danny, leaning casually agains the tile wall, "t'wawsh ya han's.")

"These watches, for example. Loook and see! Mickey Mouse!"

("You do this every year, don't you sir?" observes Mr. Parrott. "Last year it was Camilli, Medwick, Newsom, and Fitz. Now it's Waner and Wyatt and -- well, who's next?" "One must prepare," chuckles Mr. Rickey, lighting a fresh panatela. "I call your attention to the Scriptures, my boy. The story of the seven thin and ill-favored kine. We are living the fulfillment of that prophecy, I tell you, we are living those years of famine. We must take steps to prepare, we must suffer our penance now, that we may reap the benefits of the prosperity to follow." "What's a kine," queries Mr. Parrott. "A kine," explains Mr. Rickey, puffing a great and acrid cloud across the desk, "is, I should say, a cow." "More like a bull," frowns Mr. Parrott. "And pretty thin bull at that." "You are a perspicacious lad, Mr. Parrott," chuckles Mr. Rickey. "But the Scriptures also tell us that pride is a snare, the very snare of the fowler. Beware lest that snare traps not a fowl -- but a Parrott." "You thought of that a long time ago," frowns Mr. Parrott. "And you've been saving it until just the right moment..." Mr. Rickey rotates in his swivel chair and blows a blue gust out the window over Borough Hall Plaza. He chortles with satisfaction as Mr. Parrott, the engagement lost, makes his frustrated retreat.)

(Careful of the stitches, you know how it is when a seam lets go.)

(Oh, do show us the easy way. We're all eager to learn!)

(Tubs actually did used to work in a gas station, but he spent all his time emptying the Coke machine.)

(Sure, ruin the poor old man's day. Maybe you can get a discount on that morocco-bound set of Dickinson while he's crying.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG never interferes with the U. S. Mail.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

New York's Picture Newspaper.

"Reid (Arizona Slim) Wickware."

GET THE SHOTGUN!

"Well, she's in one NOW."

"I wouldn't know, your father and I got married at two AM in Connecticut."

"I'm late." "Oh, no, there's plenty of -- oh."

Two sailors on a three-day bus trip? WHAT COULD HAPPEN?

Just your destiny, knobhead.

It's much less impressive when you do it to somebody else.

And that's why you should never chop down a tree.

 

[Fading Fast]

4-8-8, 5-9-0, aand 5-7-0

One could hit; life/chance/gambling is funny that way. Ma might need to hedge her book by the end of the day.

************************************************************

"Y'eveh t'row ya skivvies at 'im?"

...wit' red devils an' fieh, inna bat'in suit wit' feat'ehs on it. An'nee said she looked jus' like you."

Alice loves winding Sally up, even if it blows up on her, she can't help herself. And you know Alice would take a bullet for Sally in a heartbeat.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'is mot'eh stuff ain' easy!" sighs Alice. "Ya t'ink so?" eyerolls Sally. "Yeh!"" Alice replies. "You know school stawrts in ten days? TEN DAYS, Sal! I gotta go oveh t' P. S. 48 t'eh an' sign Willie up f' fois' grade." "I t'ought he was goin' t' 247?" comments Sally. "So'd I," shrugs Alice. "But I wen' down'eh, an'ney said, no, you go t'48. C'n ya b'lieve'tat, Sal? T'ey say I gotta sen' t'kid t'school in MAPLETON! Not Bensonhoist! MAPLETON!" "T'at's jus' two blocks fr'm home, y'know," exhales Sally. "Y'c'n t'row a rock fr'm t' front stoop an' hit Mapleton. An' 48's Lots closeh t'en 247, t'at's a good mile away." "But it's in Bensonhoist," huffs Alice. "I wawned Willie should go t'school in Bensonhoist." "Whatta you caeh fr'm Bensonhoist?" scoffs Sally. "Ya fr'm Bushwick!" "Well, I'm fr'm Bensonhoist now," declares Alice, with a flush of pride. "Me'n Willie an' Siddy. A fam'ly fr'm Bensonhoist." "I got nut'n t'say t't'at," chuckles Sally. "I'm fr'm Eas' Flatbush." "Speakin'a which," continues Alice, "does ya ma have Willie's boit' ce'tificate? I gotta have t'at t'sign 'im up f'school. T'eh pretty strick about t'at stuff inna fois' grade." "I dunno," replies Sally. "If she don't, t'ough, you gotta go inna City, go t't Healt' D'pawrtmen' an' get it." "I hate goin' in'nem kin'a places," mutters Alice. "S'like gett'n processed." "What?" "Nut'n.")

French troops struck to within less than fifty miles of the Spanish border today while Americans advanced in the opposite direction to withn 10 miles of Italy, and thus the Allies were in complete control of almost all the French Mediterranean coast. In a third direction, American armored spearheads were thundering up the Rhone River valley to within 48 miles of Lyon in hot pursuit of the straggling remnants of the German 19th Army.

The war against Japan may have a year or more of hard fighting yet ahead, predicted the newly-appointed commander of Army Air Forces in the Pacific theatre. Major General Millard F. Harmon stated yesterday that favorable developments in Europe should not be allowed to lead to overoptimism in the Pacific, and envisioned the mass bombing of Japan by a fleet of 1000 planes before the Japanese homeland may yield.

("Th' last toime Oi saw Michael was out tharr at Oopton," sighs Ma. "'Daaaan't worry, Ma,' he said to me. 'Oi'll be ahhl roit. Oi gaaaht this Arrmy game licked,' he said to me. And noow -- Oi ain't harrd fr'm th' boy in moonths in that bloody prison camp. Oi don't even know farr sure if he's aloive." "He's aloive," reassures Uncle Frank. "What aaaar we goin' t'do, Francis?" exhales Ma. "What aaar we goin' t'do when he gets hoom, aboot William, Oi mean? Michael's his faaather." "Ah," exhales Uncle Frank. He pauses momentarily, pondering his next words. "Nora," he begins, "thar's soomthin' you need to know." He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a brown envelope. He slides it across the counter, and beckons for Ma to open it. She does so, and her face drains of color. "What --" she stammers. "That's th' boy's baaarth record," indicates Uncle Frank, his face grim. "Oi had -- a man Oi know -- pull it oota th' city foiles farr me." "Baby Boy Belasco," Ma reads, her voice shaking. "Date of Barrrth March 6, 1938. Moothar Marie F. Belasco. Moothar's address 429 Coloombia Street, Brooklyn New Yaaark. Moothar's place a' baarth -- Pasadena, Califarrnya. Faaathar -- dear gaaahd ahhlmoity! Fatharrr -- unknoown." Ma lets the paper fall to the counter and gapes pleadingly at Uncle Frank, who fiddles with the cellophane wrapper of his unlit cigar. "Ye needed t'know," he sighs. "Boot -- " she stammers. "Oi SEEN 'is barrth certificate. Michael had a -- what'checahhl -- a phootastat in his bank box, an' HIS NAME WAS AAAAHN IT!" "It's a phoony, Nora," frowns Uncle Frank. "She give him a phoony barrth certificate. Tharr's places in Red Hook will sell ye one cash aaahn th'table, noo questions aaast. Oi showed this one t' --ah -- a faller I know -- an'he tooold me the name a' th' man that most loikely done it. He recognized th' wroitin'. A verry poor an' oobvious faaargery. Any expaaart would throow it oota court. " "But -- but..." gasps Ma. "Th' boy LOOKS JOOST LOIKE Michael!" "Oi dunno," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Maybe Mickey IS th' faather. But tharr ain't no proofa that." Ma picks up the paper and studies it carefully. "Ye sure," she demands, "THIS is real?" "It come straight fr'm th' Deparrrtmen'a Health foiles." states Uncle Frank. "That's th' ooonly haaanest recarrd oov th' boy's identity thaat exists." He pulls an ash tray on the counter toward him, takes back the paper, and strikes a match. "WHAAAT AAAHRE YE DOIN!'" blurts Ma. "Oi am," explains Uncle Frank, watching the certificate curl into ashes, "saaaahlvin' a prooohblem....")

(It's been leading up to this ever since Benchley made "Sex Life of the Polyp.")

(There are many specialized military skills in this war.)

("Flock May Hit 600,000?" War is hell.)

Philadelphia Athletics pitcher Phil Marchildon has been reported missing in action. A's owner-manager Connie Mack revealed today that he received a telegram this week from the pitcher's father, followed by a letter from Marchildon's sister revealing that the former mound star, a flight officer in the Royal Canadian Air Force, did not return from an air mission over Europe.

(They really do deserve each other.)

(The odds of getting your money back are better if you just bet on the race.)

(Rule Number One of Con Games -- Don't get clever.)

(And you wonder why telegram messengers hate their jobs.)

(A letter? Mean old men don't rate telegrams.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Yeh," yehs Joe, exhibiting a small photo to the Corporal. "T'at's me lit'l goil. Leonoreh. She's gonna be t'ree yeehs ol' nex' week. She's whatcha cawl gifted. Sal took 'eh to t'is guy, t'is Docteh Minkoff, he give 'er'a test an' says she's a reg'leh genius." "Heh," hehs the Corporal, handing back the photo. "You sho' she's YOUHS?" Joe blinks, and spits out a reply of extraordinary obscenity. The corporal snickers. "Yo' ain' been heeuh too lawng, Brooklyn," he laughs, "butchoo pickin' up th' lingo good." "I'm from Williamsboig," growls Joe. "I got foueh ot'eh languages I c'n callya t'at in."

"Marion Estabrook Headrick?" "H. Hubbard Middlecroft?" Is John P. Marquand writing this?

"Wooshing past me?" Meet our special guest star -- The Flash!

Sorry Walt, you don't get your den back.

Kay and Mae, the untold story.

Give her some Unguentine for that burn!

"Of course, it's only a single. But one of you can stow away in my trunk."

Never mind him, that's four good tires and ten gallons of gas!

And meanwhile, let's all admire Wm. P. Mullins and his new "Hollywood agent" look.

Woo hoo, Movie Night!

 

[Fading Fast]

"Marion Estabrook Headrick?" "H. Hubbard Middlecroft?" Is John P. Marquand writing this?"

Good one, Lizzie. Marquand mined the East Coast Wasp in the first half the 20th century for novels about as well as anyone.

**************************************************************

WHAAAT AAAHRE YE DOIN!'" blurts Ma. "Oi am," explains Uncle Frank, watching the certificate curl into ashes, "saaaahlvin' a prooohblem....")

It's like when Caniff brings you right to the money moment and then makes you wait one more day.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Good, ye got me message," nods Uncle Frank, closing the door behind Alice as she enters the offices of F. Leary & Sons Plumbing and Heating. He pulls down the window shade and moves to his desk. "Have a seat," he directs. "Whassis awlabout, Frank?" demands Alice. "I got stuff t'do, an' I ain' got time f'no bull session." "Oi'll be quick an' to th' point," affirms Uncle Frank. "You?" snickers Alice. "T'at'll be t'fois' time." Uncle Frank exhales, withdraws a cigar from his vest pocket, and peels off the cellophane. He absently offers it to Alice who wrinkles her face in distaste before he realizes what he's doing. He exhales again, bites off the end of the cigar and spits it into the display toilet bowl, lights up, and takes a contemplative puff. "Well?" continues Alice. "Y'gonna say sump'n?" Uncle Frank rolls back slightly in his swivel chair and places the cigar in the ash tray on his desk. "Ye'll be entarrin' th' boy in school soon," he begins. "Yeh," nods Alice. "I gotta sign 'im up t'is week. P. S. 48. I don't like he should go t'eh, but what can ya do?" "Ye'll need," exhales Uncle Frank, "a baaarth certificate." "Yeh," nods Alice with an edge of growing impatience. "T' ol' lady said she ain'got one, an' wan'ed I should come tawk t'you about'it. So tawk." Uncle Frank takes another breath. "Ye'll need t'goo inta th' City farr that," he nods. "Ye'll need t'go to th' Depaaaaartment'a Health. D'ye know th' place, big buildin' on Waaaarth Street?" "Yeh," snaps Alice. "Crawst fr'm Foley Squaeh. Gives me t'creeps, too close to t'couehthouse. Bad enough I gotta absentee a day offa woik t'go inneh wit'out seein'AT place." "Yarr t'go in tharr," continues Uncle Frank, "an' yaaar gooin' up to th' Aaaahfice a' Vital Records, an' ye ask farr Mr. Moran." "Yeh," nods Alice. "So what?" "When ye ask farr th' barrth certificate," resumes Uncle Frank, fiddling with his cigar, "ye won't be askin' far annything oonder th' name'a Sweeney. That barth saaaartificate Nora had was a phony." Alice's face twists into a quizzical frown. "Y'don' say?" she murmurs. "I do say," nods Uncle Frank. "Marie Belasco haaad woon made up with Mickey's name aaahn it, but th' original only said 'Baby Boy Belasco,' an' it only had harr name." "T'en she was blackmailin' Mickey?" ponders Alice. "But he ain'...?" "We dooon't know that," injects Uncle Frank. "He praaahbably is th' boy's faaathar, you maaar than anybody know what he's loike. Boot th' whole thing is, th' only claim she has on that boy is th' barrth certificate. So -- ah -- Oi have taken steps..." Alice's eyes narrow. "Whattayou gett'n at?" she frowns. "Oi have taken steps to -- ah --" Uncle Frank hesitates, "to -- ah -- eliminate that claim." "Whattayou sayin', Frank? You ain' done nut'n t't'att'l make no trouble f'Willie, didja? 'Cause if..." "No, no," insists Uncle Frank. "Oi think that ahhl things considaaared, Oi've doon th' best thing farr th' boy." He takes a deep breath. "Yaaar to ask Mistarr Moran farr the barrrth sartifficate oov -- William Michael Dooley." And for the first time in her life, Alice is at a loss for words...)

The war has not brought an increase in crime to Brooklyn, according to figures released today to the Eagle by the Police Department. Only 18,245 arrests were reported in the boroughover the first seven months of 1944, compared to 27,714 over the same period in 1939. The arrest statistics do not, however, necessarily indicate the number of crimes committed, and they include persons who were arrested and were later relased.

(At least the crime rate hasn't gone up.)

It is anticipated that the final weeks of October leading up to the Presidential election will be devoted to public discussion of the Big Four plans for a postwar international security organization. Foreign policy spokesman for both parties have agreed to keep the matter of future peace out of the campaign, but Republican leaders have reserved the right to "full public non-partisan discussion" of the issues. Any period of public discussion is dependent upon the adjournment of the Dumbarton Oaks conferences, which is expected to lead to the public release of a draft plan for the postwar security organization in mid-October.

(Leonora snickers. "T'at ain' what Docteh Minkoff meant!" frowns Sally.)

Friends of Brig. Gen. William O'Dwyer insist that the Brooklyn District Attorney, now on military leave in Italy, will not be a candidate for any public office once he returns from the Army. O'Dwyer has been mentioned as a leading Democratic candidate for Mayor in the 1945 election. He ran for that post in 1941, but was easily defeated by Mayor LaGuardia. O'Dwyer's term as District Attorney continues thru December 31, 1947.

(I mean, who doesn't love a good Herring?)

The Boston Colored Giants and the Atlanta Black Crackers furnish the next opposition for the Bushwicks, rolling on successive days into Dexter Park. The Boston club, which beat the locals the last time they came thru Woodhaven in July, will meet the Bushwicks in a twinbill on Sunday, with Atlanta on hand for a Labor Day doubleheader on Monday.

(As a lifelong Wodehouse fan, all I can say is at least he admits it.)

("Well MAYBE SHE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT FACE!")

(You know, Classic Jo would have already done something about this.)

(Not only does he dress like Frankie Germano, he tackles like him too!)

(They really do need to build a high fence on that bridge.)

(Poor Kitty. Such a fatalist.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I r'membeh when I was at t'pickle woiks," sighs Joe. "Y'might be woikin' onna line, butcha awrways knew y'was makin' pickles. Y'see t'em jawrs an' ya know ya doin' sump'n. But heeh --" "Yuh doin' sum'thin' now," admonishes the Corporal. "Y'sta'neh runnin' yo trap, an' yuh holdin' up thuh chow line." "Y'd don' like t' t'ink too much, do ya?" growls Joe, splatting a ladle full of stew into each opened mess kit as the line files past. "You'll larrrn, Brooklyn," frowns the Corporal. "Yew ain' ovuh heeuh tuh think."

I interviewed Jane Stoneham Gosden once. Nice lady, even if she was a Giant fan.

Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before....

Name, Rank, Serial Number, you hash-brained meathead.

*snif*

"I mean, I could sure go for an Awful-Awful right now.."

"Damn, she's onto us."

"I mean, the very idea! A character reference signed "Nick Gatt!"

I wasn't sure at first, but the checkerboard pants do kinda make the outfit.

"Of course, he'll have to be -- trained..."

 

[Fading Fast]

I thought Frank was going to dig up dirt of Belasco (he has to already have plenty of it on Hops), but he decided to Captain Kirk it with a Kobayashi Maru-style reprograming of the computer, the old-fashioned state-operated paper-record computer. Good for Frank.

 

[LizzieMaine]

He's not finished with them. Call it the Brooklyn equivalent of a pincer attack.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hmph," snorts Sally. "'Brave Lit'l Finland.'" "Hm," hms Alice, as they sit side by side on the stoop, watching Leonora trying to show Willie how to play potsy on the sidewalk. "No!" insists Leonora, grabbing the flattened mayonnaise lid out of her cousin's hand. She skims it gently across the crude grid drawn on the pavement. "Like t'at!" Willie scowls. "T'at's goil's game. Le's rassle." Leonora sits down defiantly. "Ain' gonna play witchoo," she growls. Willie gazes pleadingly at Alice, who shrugs back. Willie pretends great interest in a chunk of concrete that has worked its way loose from the curb, causing Leonora to forget all about her pique and wander over to see what it's all about. "Sal," exhales Alice. "I wawna askya sump'n. Me'n Siddy done some tawkin' las' night, some serious tawkin'." "You mean YOU done some tawkin'," snickers Sally, laying aside the newspaper. "I'm serious, Sal," continues Alice. "I wawna know what'choo'd t'ink." "What about?" queries Sally. "If -- " hesitates Alice -- "if Siddy -- I mean, if me an' Siddy, yeah, me an' Siddy -- you know, bot' of us t'get'teh, nawt just Siddy -- um -- was to -- uh -- adopt Willie." Sally absorbs this question. "Y'mean," she probes, "if Mickey don' come home fr'm t'wawr? Of couehse he's gonna come home, don' go tawkin' like t'at." "Oh," stammers Alice. "Oh, well, I was jus' sayin' f'ra hypot'etical. I mean, what if Mickey -- I mean, oh, I mean -- what if t'at Marie Belasco ain' really his mot'eh, an' Mickey ain' really his faw'teh, an' what if me an' Krause, we was really -- " "You ain' makin' no sense," frowns Sally. "I'm tryin' to, Sal," sighs Alice. "But what if? I mean, what if it toined out, oh, jus' f'ra'zample, if -- um -- t'eh was a papeh said somebody else was his mot'eh, an' it didn' say on no papeh WHO t'faw'teh was? What t'en?" Sally absorbs this, and gazes intently at her friend. "Hypot'et'ically," underlines Alice. "I'm jus' askin'." Sally looks over at the children, now fully absorbed in the activities of an ant colony, and turns back to Alice. "T'en I t'ink," she shrugs, "you'n Krause would be pretty good f'parents." "Y' DO?" grins Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally. "Hypot'etically." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Hypot'etcally.")

American troops of the Fifth Army today captured the Italian city of Pisa, 14 miles north of Leghorn, and continued on at least four miles to the Serchio River, while across the leg of Italy's boot, troops of the 8th Army pushed from four to five miles inside the vaunted Gothic defense system along a 20 mile front. American forces found Pisa evacuated by the Germans, but Allied authorities had not yet determined whether the city's famous Leaning Tower had been damaged.

Near the Belgian border, German forces in hasty withdrawal from the advancing American First Army are burning entire villages and slaughtering French civilians by the score in their haste to retreat. The reports of German atrocities against civilians are said to be mounting by the hour, most of them carried out by members of Hitler's elite SS units. In the small village of Plomig, the bodies of fourteen French peasants were found bound hand and foot in an old schoolhouse, riddled with machine gun fire and mutilated by pickaxes. Eyewitnesses told Allied authorities the peasants had been executed by SS men in the town square in reprisal for the killing of a German soldier in Plomig by an unidentified Frenchman. When American forces discovered the bodies, they found an inscription on the schoolroom blackboard reading "Here are fourteen martyrs murdered by the Germans. Our allies will avenge them!"

("Solly," muses Uncle Frank. "Ye don't suppose that's that Pincus fallow that's a friend a' Joe's, do ye? Did he evarr play basebahhl?" "Don't change th' soobject, Francis," scowls Ma. "How do ye expect t'explain aahl this t' Michael when he cooms home fr'm th' waar. He could be hoom any week now! An' then what, ye tell him ye give away his son?" "Ye poot things so haaarshly," sighs Uncle Frank. "Look, we been ovarr this. Michael's yaaar son, boot Oi helped raise 'im. An' you an' Oi booth know what he's loike. D'ye honestly think he's goona be able t'coom home here, aaahfter two yarrs in a Garrman prison camp, an' take oop raisin' a choild? Do ye??" Ma's frown deepens. "That's immaaarterial," she insists. "It's not yaaar roit t'decoide that." "Ye'll agree th' boy is in good hands," counters Uncle Frank. "That Sid Krause, he dotes aahn th' lad -- and Alice, ye can see how she's changed. She's noothin' loike when she was waaarkin' far me, when she was gooin' with Mickey. People change." "Y'still ain't toold me how ye gonna explain it," repeats Ma. "Oi'm thinkin' aboot it," snaps Uncle Frank. "Woon thing at a toime." "T'say NOOTHIN'," continues Ma, "oov what we're gon'ta tell SALLY." "Ah," exhales Uncle Frank. "Oi hadn't give that mooch thought. Boot we'll coom oop with soomthin'." "It's WE now, is it?" huffs Ma. "Oi loike THAT." She snaps her dishrag around the seltzer tap and polishes vigorously. "An' anoothar thing," she resumes. "What aboot Marie Belasco an' th' Hoppar?" "They've been taken carre oov," dismisses Uncle Frank, reaching for a cigar. "Oi bet they HAVE," retorts Ma. "Ye paid 'em off, didnt'chee? An' whaaar, pray tell, did ye get ten thoosan' dallars?" "Ah," sighs Uncle Frank, twiddling the unlit cigar. "OI didn't have noothin' t'do with that. Well, I moit have made a few suggestions, boot the actual -- ah -- work -- was doon boi othar parties. And Oi think whin th' Hoppar an' Miss Belasco staaart SPENDIN' that mooney they're in farr a surproise." Ma gapes in reponse. "Doon't look at me loike that, Nora," snickers Uncle Frank. "Ye look like a floondar. Noo, Oi'll be bound that Mistar Gaffney an' Miss Belasco will foind that the -- ahh -- athaaarities will take a great interest in that currency." A light flashes on in Ma's eyes. "Ye sent'm coontarfiet mooney!" she gasps. "Oi merely asked," reminds Uncle Frank, "a sarrtain party if he moit make sarrtain arrangements." "It wassn't that Inky Quinlan, was it??" exhales Ma. "Ye doon't mean t'say...." "He doon some very satisfactarry warrk far me on that cigarette job," Uncle Frank nods. "Booot, Oi have to say, he doos a mooch bettaar jaaahb engravin' a camel's face than he doos engravin' Gen'ral Grant." "You used him," marvels Ma, "because ye KNEW he'd baaatch th' jaaahb!" "Again," insists Uncle Frank, "Oi merely draaahped a soogestion. Noon've it can be traced back t'me. An' when th' Feds oot on th' Coast see a booncha phony fifties flootin' arooon Los Angeles, it woon't take lahhng till Mr. Gaffney an' Miss Belasco will be -- ah -- taken oota circulation." "But what if th' Hoppar TAAAHLKS?" demands Ma. "He knows EVERYTHING!" "He does," concedes Uncle Frank. "And he knoows that OI know aboot that narcattics jaaahb he was mixed oop in in '35, an' what happened t'thim two oothar fellars when they caaaught th' Hoppar samplin' th' marrrchandise. Y'know, they doon't caahl 'im Hops just b'cause he looks like a rabbit." "Ye gaaaht it aaahl figyarred oot," declares Ma. "Oi do think," smiles Uncle Frank, "that it's woon'a me bettar bits'a waaark. Froom an -- ahh -- aesthetic poont'a view.)

(The tallest man in the major leagues trying to steal home vs. the slowest man in the major leagues. That must've been quite a play to see.)

Dodger Billy Herman is having a good year playing for the service team at the Great Lakes Naval Station under Lt. Cmdr. Mickey Cochrane, but he was the goat in a recent game lost by the sailors to a Ford Motor Company team. Billy was at the plate in the bottom of the ninth with two on and two out, and the score 7-4 in favor of Ford. He ran up a three-two count and then he took a pitch he could have sworn was right past his face. He began trotting confidently to first base when he heard the umpire roar STRIKE THREE. Billy turned around and gave the arbiter a real taste of Ebbets Field, but to no absolutely avail. Manager Cochrane frowned and said "Billy should have started swinging before he left the bench."

(Ahh, those Eastern dudes.)

(Now THAT's the REAL Bugs. "Of course you REALIZE this means WAR!")

(Most dysfunctional couple in the comics.)

(See Mr. Dewey, now THAT"s a moustache!)

(Doncha hate when that happens?)

("Whoooza good baby dog? Hmm? Whooza good baby dog!")

(Don't whip your head around too fast there, Doc, you'll dislocate your neck.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"St Louis Blues?" erupts Burma. "That's MY song!"

Mr. Hill works on a very short lead time, and he's also sore about the Summer Sisters.

"The cellulose-like substance in the spider web congeals the blood." CLIP AND SAVE THIS HOUSEHOLD HINT!

"Hmph -- amatchoors!" -- Uncle Frank.

Someday poor Plushie will have a coronary, and then won't they all be sorry.

"Who in tunket...?" You're showing your age, Walt.

Good, good, now give'm a real scary laugh. BWA HAHAHAHAH!

This Jaxon face thing is X-dominant.

The 1945 Covina Marathon will be quite an event.

Never mind the armed might of the United Nations -- you'll answer to Paramount Pictures!

 

[LizzieMaine]

And furthermore...

"Hmph." -- Gen. Wm. O'Dwyer.