The Prison Mirror

By Bok

Though neither was a true webfoot,
both were native sons of the city by the
river-and yet Alonzo Pennywhistle
Jones Esq. had never met Iron Head
Terry McGurk. Odd then, that fate
should ordain their paths to cross, for
the sun scarce shone on more exact op-
posites. As pigskin fanatics will know,
Iron Head Terry was the ham fisted
fullback of the renowned Tigers-pre-
cisely the type of house broken gorilla to
flutter the flighty hearts of that breed of
females who are thus inclined. Lawyer
Jones on the other hand and for all his
plushy offices in the fashionable Tower
building. remained decidedly undistin-
guished in both stature and prestige. Not
that this stunted disciple of Blackstone
lacked ability, a modest clientele, or even
such blue ribbon political affiliations as
were the order of the day. Nay, it was
simply that Alonzo, for all those assets,
was ensnared in the clutch of a desperate
and soul destroying vice.

The shoddy story had begun years be-
fore on the not so exclusive playgrounds
of Public School Nine. There upon one
balmy spring day, young Master Jones
had won practically all the marbles on
the West Side in a single session. It was
the shining hour of an otherwise drab
childhood, a feat which distinguished Al-
onzo in the envious eyes of his playmates
for at least a fortnight-but it had dis-
astrous, psychological repercussions. A
cursed and markedly unremunerative
preoccupation with the gods of chance
had clung to our hero right down through
the years. Most recently this failing had
found ready expression through the medi-
um of one Honest George, a bookmaker
of dusky repute whose blood brother,
oddly enough, was an alderman. By vir-
tue of said saving grace, Honest George
was able to serve Alonzo and others like
him faithfully and well after the fashion
of a non-interest bearing bank depository.

As if such leanings tokened not woe
sufficient in the life of Lawyer Jones,
he flaunted by way of minor vice a sim-
ilarly incurable yen for his blonde and
winsome secretary, Miss Maybelle Nelson.
Maybelle, as the vulgar are prone to
phrase it, was five-foot-four and percep-
tibly all there. She also had served the
budding Demosthenes faithfully and
well. and like Honest George,

she
handled his avowed personal interest in
a friendly, but to date, non-reciprocal
fashion.

One way or another then, we arrive at
that fine September afternoon when the
proverbial worm first showed signs of
turning. Upon the evening before Alonzo
had recklessly reckoned a pugilist by the
name of Ezzard Charles as capable of
outmaneuvering a highly favored former
champion. The long tailed chicken had
come home to roost, and Honest George
paid off with the moaning wheeze of a
slot machine shelling out five quarters
(Please Turn to Page 3)
The Sure Thing

(Continued from Page 1)

to a fifty dollar loser. Now friend Jones sat at his polished desk, childishly fondling a wad of small bills which approximated the thickness of a Sears and Roebuck catalog.

"Miss Nelson," he remarked somewhat hopefully, "Miss Nelson, let us forget, for the nonce, the case of O'Hara vs. Rosen. I happen to be, if you will pardon the expression, loaded with loot, and nothing would please me more than the honor of your company at dinner."

The fair Miss Nelson seemed unimpressed. "I'm sorry Alonzo," she said, closing her notebook with practiced finality, "but I have a date." Alonzo watched with inoffensive blue eyes as the trim ankles twinkled through the doorway.

When they were gone he rose to gaze long and mournfully in the panelled wall mirror. What was everlastingly wrong, he thought, as though he didn't have a sneaking hunch. Why, if Maybelle would just give him half a tumble he might-why, he might even quit-. But no chance. Oh well, a man couldn't be lucky at everything. Fingering the money again, he began to whistle softly.

The secretary was still at her outer desk when he left for the afternoon.

"Good night, Alonzo," she smiled sweetly -and then as the door closed added under her breath-"and please, oh, please if you love me, stay away from that cigar store!" On the street below the jaunty little figure headed straight for Honest George's Tobacco Emporium.

Events to follow proved the vast majority of worms turn only in circles and then steadfastly resume their original course. After his solitary prizefight coup, Lawyer Jones and his little black betting book put in what the gentry refer to as a few rough turns on the wheel. He guessed the World Series wrong from start to finish, and insisted on doubling the ante with every game. Then sure money Notre Dame bowed to impossible Purdue, and even the draft board could scarce have wreaked greater havoc on a single existence. A certain air of desperation went not unnoticed at the office, and Maybelle grew more and more concerned.

Several times she contemplated taking the step, but hesitated. He was a wonderful employer-a wonderful guy, period, except for that one thing.

Every dark night has its dawning and early in October came the big chance to recover fortune and self esteem at one fell swoop. The Tigers were meeting the eastern Broncs in the professional football classic of the season. This year the Tigers were highly favored-but during the week before Sunday's game, exciting rumors filtered out from the stadium.

Alonzo had it straight from a cousin of the grounds keeper. Iron Head McGurk, the Tiger mainstay, was missing signals and messing up horribly in general!

Something was worrying the big bruiser and without his clicking, the underdog Broncs were a mortal cinch to win. Such opportunity knocks but once and trigger happy Alonzo was far from deaf. On Saturday he raided the office cash box for the rent money-when the Broncs came through he could replace it three-fold. It was just before noon that Maybelle noticed the shortage and set her lips grimly. The time had come for drastic action-and drastic action was what she took that very evening.

How often, gentle reader, has the bard predicted dour things for the plans of mice and men. Monday's sports page fairly screamed the news. "Tigers run wild" it was bannered, and then in soberer type-—"An inspired Iron Head McGurk leads locals to impressive victory!" Lawyer Jones threw down the paper and sagged in his chair, mentally surveying the shambles of his financial affairs. Who in the world could he put the bite on this time? His secretary interrupted the sad reverie.

"Mr. Jones-Alonzo-I hate to tell you this on such short notice, but I became engaged Saturday night and will be married this week."

He looked up with startled, half comprehending eyes. "But you-you can't!"

"I'm sorry, Alonzo," she replied with soft finality.

The understanding gaze braced him a little. "Well, this is a surprise. But I must get you a gift-a wedding present. Where shall I-that is, to whom shall I send it?"

She looked at him again, her beautiful oval face glowing with sympathy. "To 1600 Elm Street, Alonzo, dear-to Mrs. Terry McGurk."