Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1955-11-18
Raymond F. Tisby

MEMPHIS WORLD
AMERICA'S STANDARD RACE JOURNAL
The South's Oldest and Leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspaper
Published by MEMPHIS WOULD PUBLISHING CO.
Every TUESDAY and FRIDAY at 164 BEALE—Phone 8-4030
Entered in the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn., as second-clan mail
under the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870
Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE
W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott; General Manager
Raymond F. Tisby Manager Editor
Mrs. Rosa Brown Bracy Public Relations and Advertising
William C. Weathers Circulation Promotion
The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper—non-sectarian
and non-partisan, printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things
it believes to be of interest to its readers and opposing those things against
the interest of its readers.
SUBSCRIPTION RATES:
Year $5.00 — 6 Months $3.00 — 3 Months $1.50 (In Advance)

A Principle Extended

When the Supreme Court stuck down the "separate but
equal" doctrine in its school segregation decision, it became
inevitable that the principle thus established would sooner or later
be extended to all tax-supported activities.
It comes as no surprise, therefore, that the court has now
ruled that segregation is unconstitutional in public parks, golf
courses, playgrounds and swimming pools.
Any other decision would have been strikingly inconsistent
with the court's interpretation of the Constitution in the school
cases. For as the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals noted in the Virginia 
Park ruling the Supreme Court upheld Monday, if compulsory
segregation is unconstitutional in the schools, where attendance is
mandatory, it is obviously unconstitutional in publicly financed
recreational facilities, "the use of which is purely optional."
To berate the court is thus an idle exercise it did not instigate 
the cases but merely ruled upon them when they reached
it through the normal judicial channels. And the way in which it
ruled could have been predicted.
It might be wished that more time to adjust to the school decision 
had elapsed before these test cases in other matters arose.
Opponents of school desegregation already are seizing upon
these latest rulings to try to compound the difficulties of an orderly
and reasonable solution to the educational problem.
Yet there is really no reason the decision on recreational facilities 
should be permitted to interfere with attempts to comply with
the school ruling.
Although the constitutional basis for both decisions is the
same, the problems themselves are quite different. Schools are
one thing, and parks another. A policy adaptable to the other.
It is to be hoped, however, that the Supreme Court will allow
for local flexibility and a reasonable time for compliance in regard
to the parks just as it did with the schools.
The problems raised by its public recreation ruling are no
more the same throughout the South than are the problems raised
by its public education decision. Neither will be solved overnight;
neither will be solved by assuming that what works in one community 
or one state will work everywhere else in the South.
It is encouraging to note, therefore, that the Supreme Court
has again left decrees up to the local federal courts.
It should be recognized, too, that the court has not required
any citizen to frequent a non-segregated place of public recreation.
It has said, rather, that no citizen shall be denied the use of such
facilities because of his color.
The practical effects of such a ruling are yet to be seen. At
the moment, it is much too early to say with any degree of certainty 
just what they will be.
It is certain, however, that whatever problems do arise will
be solved only by restraint and understanding among the people
of both races. And it is equally certain that they will not be solved
by breathing defiance of the constitution as interpreted by the
Supreme Court.

The Wife, The Cook, The Seamstress, The
Maid And The Gardener
This is the triple-fold service that many an, American got
when he just happened upon a wife. Strange to say that many a
housewife, is performing these services admirably, while finding
time to take out for recreation. To carry on these multiple duties,
requiring in their technique the exactness and precision expected
where as many persons are employed to effect, there must be
some super-human qualities in the loyalty, devotion and training
of this person of so many talents.
On some occasions, this same person referred to, pulls a
shift at some job at the factory, in the office or shop.
Such an individual is the salt of the earth and it is feared
that these cases are so common that they often escape even passing 
notice. In fact we have come to the conclusion that this is
exactly the place of womanhood in the cog-wheel of human
procession. In that little thought is given to the real worth of the
mothers of the nation.
Many a man got his start on the road to success and fame
through the sacrificial offering upon the alter of faith and unstinted 
devotion.
These are the celebrated mothers of the notion; it was their
prowess that braved the wilderness at savage peril, or stood the
cold rigors of that living death known as human slavery.
One day this combination institution, the wife, the cook, the
Seamstress, the maid and the gardener will come in for still
another appraisal and consigned the topmost place in the annals
of our civilization, being just "a little lower than the angels."

The Big Soldier Fought A Big Battle
The country at large and the free world as a whole must
rejoice in that our great President, Dwight D. Eisenhower is reported 
as being almost ready to take off on his ship for Washington, 
the scene of the government of our nation.
It is reported that he will board the Columbine and go first
to Washington, thence to Gettysburgh another name famed in
battle and in peace. This is the seat of the President's farm and
it is here that he will complete his recovery.
The nation is grateful to Almighty God who has vouchsafed 
the President's health and preserved him for this particular
lime of history.
While there is no such thing as the indispensable man, there
are those whom destiny has timed to their generations and from
what we have seen of this able and experienced executive, we
are praying that fate will guide his footsteps again to service
and to duty.
Few men in American history have been acclaimed as the
great and beloved* hero as our President. Regardless of parties or
races, he stands as the great idol; the champion of liberty and
social justice.
May the Lord spare him for many more years of usefulness
and may he find at his farm that wonderful panacea that will
marshal him back to health again.
Congratulations, Mr. President.

New Melrose High

education, Supt. Ball is a member
of St. Luke Methodist Church and
a member of the American Legion
and Kiwan's Club.
Following the dedicatory address
by Mr. Ball, Marvin Smith, president 
of the Melrose Student Council, 
will give the acceptance.
Others appearing on the program 
includes the Melrose band.
the Rev/ R. W. Norsworthy, pastor

of Mt. Moriah Baptist Church; the
Melrose Glee Club: Aaron Key,
Mrs. O. M. Hunt, president of the
Melrose; P-TA and the Rev. D. W.
Browning, pastor of Mt. Pisgah
CME Church.
Special, guests will be all city
principals and members of the
Memphis board of education, Prof
Cornell Wells, principal of Harrold
high school; Prof. Joseph Falls,
principals of Geeter high school;
Prof. R. J. Roddy, principal of
Woodstock high school: Prof. Guy

Hoffman, principal of Barrett's
Chapel high school; Father Capistran 
Haas, principal of St. Augustine 
high school; Nevi Watkins,
president of S. A. Owen Junior
College; Hollis Price, president of
LeMoyne College; the Rev. A. McEwen 
Williams, president of Henderson 
Business College; C. J. Gaston, 
president of Griggs Business
College; J. Everett Pidgeon, president 
of the Memphis Coca Cola
Rottling Company and William
Nabors.

MEALTIME MELODIES!
BY LEOD A GAMMON
That stuffed poultry that you
serve for Thanksgiving rates an encore. 
Let's "Talk Turkey" twice,
and we will say the same for chicken. 
Plan to serve the birds twice,
first stuffed and roasted. Then the
second day combine the meat and
stuffing in a new dish. When you
prepare the birds for roasting, here
is the opportunity to cook-moreon-purpose. 
Fix that extra pan of
dressing so the the family can have
plenty the first day. Season lightly 
though so you can have a free
hand for seasoning the encore.
Your family will ask for repeat
performance on this encore. Chicken 
may be used instead of turkey.
For that stuffed turkey select
a junior turkey of
desired weight.
Stuff, Bird with
your favorite
dressing just before 
baking, being
careful not to
pack stuffing,
since it expands
in cooking Stuff
neck and body
cavities and truss
bird for even
cooking.
Place stuffed turkey breast up on
rack in shallow baking pan. Brush
with 1-2 cup melted butter. Brown
in a pre-heated 500 degree F. oven
for 20 minutes, or until lightly
browned. Baste turkey with the
drippings. Reduce oven heat to
325 degrees F.
Cover browned turkey with piece
of heavy duty aluminum foil,
crimping foil tight to the edges of
the pan all the way around, (If

regular roaster is used cover with
roaster lid) Finish baking turkey
at 325 degrees F. A. turkey weighing 
from 4 to 6 pounds would require 
approximately 1 3-4 to 2 1-2
hours to brown and bake.
Serve this country baked turkey
on large heated platter, garnishing
with orange cups of old-fashioned
cranberry sauce. Make the menu
old-fashioned all the way through.




You and your, family will just
love this dinner. Then say, Sunday 
serve the encore, Turkey Stuffing 
Casserole. The casserole features 
mushroom soups with the
fowl and stuffing.

Place in the bottom of 1 quart
casserole:
2 cups baked bread stuffing
Combine:
1-2 cup mushroom soup
2 tablespoons milk
2 cups cut-up cooked turkey
Put this turkey mixture over
stuffing.
Out into six wedges and arrange
in petal fashion over top of casserole: 

1 medium tomato
Brush tomato with:
1 tablespoon melted butter
Bake in a moderate oven (350 degrees 
F) 20 minutes. Brush again
with melted butter and bake 10
additional minutes.

YOUNG MINISTER ATTACKS
HATE AT ANNUAL MEETING
"Heal the heart and
revive the soul of a nation sick
with the malignant cancer of hate
—which snuffs out even the lives of
our young children in Mississippi,
Chicago, and elsewhere."
With these words a young Negro
minister opened the 7th Annual Interdenominational 
Youth Service in
Chicago's Orchestra Hall on Sunday
evening. He is the Reverend George
Lawrence, who brought an audience
of more than 3,000 to a startled hush
is he delivered his grave words of
invocation.
Some 500 people were turned away
from the Orchestra Hall service
which drew the largest crowd in
history for this type of meeting.
The annual youth service is sponsored 
by the United Christian Youth
Fellowship, representing 1200 church
es and 24 member and cooperating
denominations.
Principal speaker for the event
was Dr. Charles B. Templeton, director 
of evangelism for the Presbyteerian 
Church, USA. He spoke on
"Handsome Is As Handsome Does."
Dr. Templeton is the star of "Look
Up and Live," the network television
show viewed every Sunday morning.
"Another highlight of the Chicago

event was a dramatic presentation
written and directed by Paul R.
Gibson, young Negro divinity student 
at Garrett Seminary. The skit
was entitled, "Christian. Youth
Questions Its Place As World Citizens." 

Rev. Lawrence, advisor for the
youth division of the Church Federation 
of Greater Chicago, said in
his challenging opening statement:
"Let us pray that we may gain a
deeper and more reverent regard for
human dignity. May God help
and guide the men in whose hand
rest the destiny of this nation and
the entire world. May the ailing.
President of these United States be
strengthened.
He then prayed:
"Almighty God give us great wisdom 
and hearts of love and understanding. 
Give us as Christians
the daring and a burning desire to
realize and to accept our increasing
responsibilities as world citizens.
Help us to know that unless we accept 
the responsibilities of freedom,
there can be lasting peace and no
real freedom.
"Forgive us our sins — for the evil
we do, and for the good we fail to
do.

CAPITOL SPOTLIGHT SPOTLIGHT

Wonder why more representative
colored groups don't come to Washington 
to swap views with top officials 
in the Eisenhower Administration? 

Visits of such groups for conferences 
with top officials arc few and
far between. Now and then you see
a colored person or two in mixed
delegations at the White House, but
seldom does an all-colored group
come here to tell the Administration
about the problems of colored people 
and find out what the Administration 
is doing or plans to do
about those problems.
One of the few groups to do so
recently was the Board of Directors
of the National Newspaper Publishers 
Association, which Connie Dejoie. 
Jr., publisher of the Louisiana
Weekly at New Orleans, heads.
The amazing thing was not the

free and frank exchange of views
they had with Vice President Richard 
M. Nixon, Attorney General
Herbert Brownell, Jr., and Secretary
of Labor James P. Mitchell, but that
these officials were pleased to have
talked with the publishers.
Making the appointments for the
publishers was not difficult. Here's
how it was done:
A letter camp from Dejoie asking
me to make appointments for the
publishers to talk with the Vice
President about the work of the
President's Committee on Government 
Contracts and With either Attorney 
General Brownell or Assistant 
Attorney General Warren Olney
3d about civil rights.
The letter was taken to Fred
Mullens, public relations director at
the Justice Department. He said he
would let me know about an appointment 
in a day or two.
I then went to Mr. Nixon's office
and talked with Miss Mary Rose
Woods, personal, secretary to the
Vice President, who also said she
would let me know about an appointment. 

Mullen informed me that the Attorney 
General would see the publishers 
in his office at 2:30 P. M.,
on a Friday afternoon. I informed
Miss Woods of the time of the appointment 
with the Attorney General 
arid asked her to fix the appointment 
with the Vice President
at a later hour of the same day or
Saturday morning.
Several days passed without word
from the Vice President's office. On
the following Monday morning I
dropped in and inquired about the
appointment. An assistant and Miss
Woods would work that day on Mr.
Nixon's appointment for the week.
The next morning I learned that
the White House had advised Mr.
Nixon to see the publishers if he
had to break an engagement. I then
dismissed the appointment with him
from my mind.
Miss Woods reached me late

Thursday afternoon and said the
Vice President would see the pubLishers 
the next day at 1:45 P. M.
I wired Dejoie.
If the publishers were to see Nixon 
at 1:45 P. M. and Brownell at
2:30 P. M. they would not have time
for a full discussion of the problem
of equal job opportunities in plants
having Government contracts.
So. I called Secretary Mitchell's
office and asked if he would see the
publishers on Saturday morning
Within fifteen minutes I had word
that Mr. Mitchell would See them in
his office at 10 o'clock Saturday
morning.
The publishers kept the appointments. 
They appeared pleased. I
expressed my thanks to the persons 
who had arranged the appointments. 
But the assistants to
the Vice President, the Attorney
General and the Secretary of Labor
were profuse in their thanks to
me for bringing the publishers in.
They made me feel that the publishers 
had favored their bosses.
Friends of the Doyle Mitchells
(Juanita) — he's the 42-year-old
president of the Industrial Bank of
Washington and a Reserve Army
officer — are sorry they washed
their dirty linen in District Court
here.

Brownell Will

bune: "Every state is bound to
give full faith and credit to the
acts of other states. But there is
nothing in the record to indicate
that the citizens of Mississippi acted 
in good faith toward a citizen
of Illinois."
The Chicago Daily News said:
"It is both humiliating and infuriating 
that this brutal and
wanton crime should go unpunished. 
Those who cherish equal justice 
for all as the ideal of democracy 
must bow their heads in shame
at this blot on our national honor." 

Stratton said he does not believe
the case should be dropped at this
point. "Somebody murdered that
boy and should pay for it," he declered. 

Other groups spoke out against
the outcome of the grand jury investigation 
into the affair. The
American Civil Liberties Union said
in New York:
"The ACLU rarely comments on
whether or not a jury should inso 
far disclosed seem to show
clearly that a violation of the
right of equal treatment under the
law has occurred."

Reddick Says
College To Aid
Student Thinking
In a brilliant 
analysis of the American educational 
system, Dr. L. D. Reddick,
last Sunday afternoon told the student 
body of Alabama State College
that the main purpose of the American 
college is to civilize the students
who invade our college campuses
each fall. They have never learned
to think for themeslves and are un
aware of the subtleties of mordern
life."
Dr. Reddick, who is chairman of
the Department of History at Alabama 
State College, pointed out
that this "civilization" or "socialization" 
can be brought about only by
the deliberate cultivation of the
mind. He quoted Dr. Robert M.
Hutchins, former President of the
University of Chicago and now head
of the Fund for the Republic, that
most Americans think that education 
is "a perfectly splendid thing"
but do not have "the faintest idea
of what it is about."
Reddick added that most students
and faculty members also seem, to
have only the "faintest idea" of
want education is about.
Investigations have shown that
most American students go to college; 
(l) because their friends go;
2) to escape going to work, 3) the
glamor of athletics; 4) to prepare
themselves to earn more money.
Reddick contended that all of
these reasons should be incidental to
the improvement of the mind, that
our college should headline intellectual 
achievement, should encourage 
variety even oddity, if it has an
intellectual basis. "We do riot all
need to look like each other or always 
agree with each other. We
need only to understand each
other," he said. The college campus
is about the last place left in America 
where a stand may be made againt 
materialism and conformity.
If our colleges succumb, continued
Dr. Reddick there will be little hope
left for the intellectual life in
America.

Hicks Tells

press. You can't get around it
Somebody has got to be there to tell
the world whats going on. Who is
better qualified to do this than a
colored reporter.
And I'm a colored reporter.
I felt, I had to go hack to Mississippi 
if I intended to keep on being a
colored reporter.
The second reason went back
also personal. I just didn't went to
admit to that I was actually
afraid to go to any part of this
country for which I gave blood,
sweat and tears during the last war.
I'm an American and Mississippi
i$ still a part of America though
many white people down there refuse 
to act like it. I just didn't want
to admit to myself the flag that I
followed and fought for the flag
that I love and respect would not
he with me in any part of America.
So, I asked to go back.
My return tri was not a rewarding 
one. If I had doubts on the first
trip about Mississippi being in complete 
defiance of the US flag, all
the doubt was erased by my second
trip. I know now that the state of
Mississippi is already in complete
rebellion against all the ideals of
Americanism which I have been
taught to love and respect.
But I have on satisfaction as the
about my second visit.
"I'm not afraid of Mississippi anymore." 

"It was just like getting back on
that plane the second time. Today
I'm not afraid to ride anything
that soars through the air and if
and when they get rockets to the
moon I'm going to ask to be in the

first group of reporters who fly up
there.
And the same thing goes for
Mississippi.
I've now seen the white people
down there for what they really are
a group of cowardly baby murders
who operate in the still of night
only at times when the odds are
weighted in their favor.
And I'm not afraid of them anymore. 
I'll go back to Mississippi to
cover a baby murder, a race riot or
the annual convention of the While
Citizen Council.
I went back, I'm glad I went back
and I'll go back again and again as
long as its a part of America.
And if Mississippi tries to secede
I'll be among the first to volunteer
to pick up a gun and go buck down
there and help whip them back into
the Union.
I'm not afraid anymore!

Article m Readers Digest Reveals
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Is So Often a Needless Misery!
Do you suffer terrible nervous tension 
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UNFINISHED CRIME
IN THE police car Sara sat in
one corner, the young man between
her and Sanders while the uniformed 
man drove. She made herself 
small, drawing her body away
from any contact with the monstrous 
thing that sat beside her,
the man who had tried to slip into
the life and mind of another man.
They drove without touching the
siren, but traffic cops saluted as
the car slid past. They stopped
at an office building that overlooked 
Bryant park. The lobby
was crowded.
"We three mustn't get separated," 
muttered Sanders to Sara.
"Take my arm. Let him lead the
way."
The stranger walked to the first
express elevator without hesitation.
His step made an angry sound,
hard and clear and even on the
marble floor. As soon as Sara and
Sanders had followed him inside,
he said, "Sixteen, please."
He would know all this sort of
Thing, of course. He couldn't have
attempted to supplant Gerry unless
he did.
When the elevator stopped, Sanders 
let him go first, watching his
every move covertly and keenly.
There were two corridors running
in opposite directions. He chose the
one left of the elevator and turned
south to a door with a frosted
glass panel labelled "Hone-Peters
Productions." He opened the door
without knocking.
They were in a small anteroom
—a rug, a bench, and, beyond a
railing, a girl typing — a girl with
bleached hair piled in elaborate
coils and black eyes that betrayed
the bleach.
The girl looked up as the stranger 
reached the railing. Her thicklipped 
mouth was at once mean
and greedy, the mouth of a ruthless 
careerist. It curved into a
smile as artificial as her hair.
"Hi, Mr. Hone! If you want Mr.
Peters, he's already gone over to
WXYZ — Studio 3. Shall I call
him?"
The stranger looked at Sanders
quizzically, "Well?"
"This all your office staff?"
"Yes."
Sanders looked at the typist
again.
"Don't bother to call Mr. Peters,
miss. We're going over there now."
In the hallway, the stranger
turned toward them. "How long
is this farce going on?"
"Sorry, Mr. Hone." Sanders gave
him the name now, grudgingly.
"Isn't it better than, having Miss
Dacre chattering to some cockeyed
reporter? The wrong sort of publicity 
is bad for radio producers.
Next thing she'll be saying you're
a Red."
"Is that a threat?" Suddenly, in
the pallid light of the windowless
corridor, he looked dangerous his
mouth, sullen, his brows, contracted 
and beetling, shadowing the glitter 
in his eyes.
"No," answered the captain equably. 
"Merely an observation."
Again they were crowded in the
back seat of the car, three people
all hostile to each other. The engine 
purred with surpressed power
is the car slid through traffic. The
ghastly sunshine officiously brightened 
every bit of glass and chromium 
and brought a look of indecent
good humor to every face in the
street.
"Let me see," drawled Sanders.
"Where is WXYZ?"
"Broadway and 51st," snapped
the stranger. "How childish can
you get?" Whatever his motives,
his nerves were now stretched to
breaking point.
The captain laughed. "Childish?
Oh, I don't know. Seems to me
we've all been fairly adult about
this — so far. No hysterics yet."
"Just, wait until Peters accepts
me." The stranger cast another
malignant look at Sara. "She'll
blow her top then. They can't
stand haying their pet delusions
smashed."
"They?"
"Paranoiacs."
Sara clenched her hands. Why
was he so confident? Peters had
been the real Gerry's partner for
over a year. Peters was well known
to everyone in the radio world. An
imposter couldn't hope to fool
Peters and Peters, now in the act
of rehearsal at WXYZ, must be the
real Peters.
"Fifty second St. entrance," the
stranger instructed the driver ostentatiously. 
The boy at the reception 
desk did not look up, but
the elevator boy grinned and said,
"Hello, Mr. Hone! Mr. Peters went
up a moment ago. Studio 3. The
cast is all there."
"I know." The stranger glanced
at Sanders with an unpleasant
smile and now the captain was
worried.
Another long corridor, low ceiled,
dim-lit. A padded, sound-proof
door with bronze letters: "Studio
3."
The stranger pushed the door
open. They entered a plush-lined
cubbyhole, something like a theater 
box. Through a plate-glass
window they saw a large, bare
room and a dozen people, their feel
stepping, their lips moving, all in
deathlike silence like an old-fashioned, 
voiceless movie.
The stranger led then through
another door to the control room,
where a man in shirtsleeves sat before 
a panel of instruments as
elaborate as the dashboard of a
B-29. A third door and they were
in the studio itself, shocked by the
sudden bustle of steps and voice
echoing loudly under the high ceiling. 
One man sat before a music
stand with a flute resting in his
lap. Another knelt beside a table
set with a wooden foot, a revolver
and a tin plate filled with sand—
sound effects. At a large table,
furnished with microphones; sat a
girl of 10 and three men, each with
a typescript. The girl was speaking 
in the voice of, a four-year-old
child. ". . . but, daddy, I did see

the man. He got away to the fog."
"One moment, please," said Sanders. 
"Mr. Peters?"
"For heaven's sake — another interruption?" 
The child of 10 spoke
like a trouper of 40. "Heck, Mr.
Peters, J. was just, getting it."
"Okay, Daisy, relax!" One of
the men, thick-set, bald-headed,
stared at the intruders truculently.
"What the devil do you want,
Gerry? We'll be on the air in 35
minutes. Time's been changed
again."
"Whew!" The stranger dropped
into a chair and mopped his brow
with a wilted handkerchief. It was
the first human thing he had done.
"Thanks, Jim."
These fools think I'm not Gerry
Hone. One of them is a police captain." 

"Well, for crying out loud!"
Peters eyed Sara and Sanders as if
they were two-headed monsters.
Sanders spoke wearily. "Any
doubt about it, Mr. Peters?"
"Doubt?" Peters looked at the
changeling and grinned. "Gerry
and I have had two shows on the
air for over a year. When you've
been through that many rehearsals
with a guy, you kind of get so you
know him by sight. This is Gerry
Hone, all right Everyone at this
table knows him. Am I right?"
The answer came in chorus.
"Sure." "Of course." "For the love
of Mike . . ."
"Sorry to bother you, but it
happens to be important. There's
a stolen ruby involved worth at
least $50,000."
"Well!" Peters looked at the
stranger. "You got it, Gerry? We
wouldn't have to worry about a
sponsor then!"
"Nope. I never even saw the
thing."
"But you did!" cried Sara. "It
was you who picked it off the
counter in the 10-cent store and
urged me to buy it."
"Oh, that" The stranger, wiped
his brow, again. "But I thought it
was junk then. I had no idea it
was real."
Sanders sighed. "Better call it a
day, Miss Dacre. You can't beat
this. Right?"
Sara was more exhausted than
the stranger. She turned to him
and opened her lips to mouth apologies— 
and closed them again, as
he stretched out an arm, reaching
for one of the typescrips.
"Now I'm here, I'll check the
time for you," he said.
"We've done that already."
Peters, tapped the end of his nose
with his forefinger in the old radio 
pantomime. "Right on."
"Any cuts?"
"Only two."
Already they were absorbed in
their show.
"Let's go, Miss Dacre," whispered 
Sanders.
Without a word, she followed
him.
"Now that scene on the beach,
where Alice grabs—."


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IN THE police car Sara sat in
one corner, the young man between
her and Sanders while the uniformed 
man drove. She made herself 
small, drawing her body away
from any contact with the monstrous 
thing that sat beside her,
the man who had tried to slip into
the life and mind of another man.
They drove without touching the
siren, but traffic cops saluted as
the car slid past. They stopped
at an office building that overlooked 
Bryant park. The lobby
was crowded.
"We three mustn't get separated," 
muttered Sanders to Sara.
"Take my arm. Let him lead the
way."
The stranger walked to the first
express elevator without hesitation.
His step made an angry sound,
hard and clear and even on the
marble floor. As soon as Sara and
Sanders had followed him inside,
he said, "Sixteen, please."
He would know all this sort of
Thing, of course. He couldn't have
attempted to supplant Gerry unless
he did.
When the elevator stopped, Sanders 
let him go first, watching his
every move covertly and keenly.
There were two corridors running
in opposite directions. He chose the
one left of the elevator and turned
south to a door with a frosted
glass panel labelled "Hone-Peters
Productions." He opened the door
without knocking.
They were in a small anteroom
—a rug, a bench, and, beyond a
railing, a girl typing — a girl with
bleached hair piled in elaborate
coils and black eyes that betrayed
the bleach.
The girl looked up as the stranger 
reached the railing. Her thicklipped 
mouth was at once mean
and greedy, the mouth of a ruthless 
careerist. It curved into a
smile as artificial as her hair.
"Hi, Mr. Hone! If you want Mr.
Peters, he's already gone over to
WXYZ — Studio 3. Shall I call
him?"
The stranger looked at Sanders
quizzically, "Well?"
"This all your office staff?"
"Yes."
Sanders looked at the typist
again.
"Don't bother to call Mr. Peters,
miss. We're going over there now."
In the hallway, the stranger
turned toward them. "How long
is this farce going on?"
"Sorry, Mr. Hone." Sanders gave
him the name now, grudgingly.
"Isn't it better than, having Miss
Dacre chattering to some cockeyed
reporter? The wrong sort of publicity 
is bad for radio producers.
Next thing she'll be saying you're
a Red."
"Is that a threat?" Suddenly, in
the pallid light of the windowless
corridor, he looked dangerous his
mouth, sullen, his brows, contracted 
and beetling, shadowing the glitter 
in his eyes.
"No," answered the captain equably. 
"Merely an observation."
Again they were crowded in the
back seat of the car, three people
all hostile to each other. The engine 
purred with surpressed power
is the car slid through traffic. The
ghastly sunshine officiously brightened 
every bit of glass and chromium 
and brought a look of indecent
good humor to every face in the
street.
"Let me see," drawled Sanders.
"Where is WXYZ?"
"Broadway and 51st," snapped
the stranger. "How childish can
you get?" Whatever his motives,
his nerves were now stretched to
breaking point.
The captain laughed. "Childish?
Oh, I don't know. Seems to me
we've all been fairly adult about
this — so far. No hysterics yet."
"Just, wait until Peters accepts
me." The stranger cast another
malignant look at Sara. "She'll
blow her top then. They can't
stand haying their pet delusions
smashed."
"They?"
"Paranoiacs."
Sara clenched her hands. Why
was he so confident? Peters had
been the real Gerry's partner for
over a year. Peters was well known
to everyone in the radio world. An
imposter couldn't hope to fool
Peters and Peters, now in the act
of rehearsal at WXYZ, must be the
real Peters.
"Fifty second St. entrance," the
stranger instructed the driver ostentatiously. 
The boy at the reception 
desk did not look up, but
the elevator boy grinned and said,
"Hello, Mr. Hone! Mr. Peters went
up a moment ago. Studio 3. The
cast is all there."
"I know." The stranger glanced
at Sanders with an unpleasant
smile and now the captain was
worried.
Another long corridor, low ceiled,
dim-lit. A padded, sound-proof
door with bronze letters: "Studio
3."
The stranger pushed the door
open. They entered a plush-lined
cubbyhole, something like a theater 
box. Through a plate-glass
window they saw a large, bare
room and a dozen people, their feel
stepping, their lips moving, all in
deathlike silence like an old-fashioned, 
voiceless movie.
The stranger led then through
another door to the control room,
where a man in shirtsleeves sat before 
a panel of instruments as
elaborate as the dashboard of a
B-29. A third door and they were
in the studio itself, shocked by the
sudden bustle of steps and voice
echoing loudly under the high ceiling. 
One man sat before a music
stand with a flute resting in his
lap. Another knelt beside a table
set with a wooden foot, a revolver
and a tin plate filled with sand—
sound effects. At a large table,
furnished with microphones; sat a
girl of 10 and three men, each with
a typescript. The girl was speaking 
in the voice of, a four-year-old
child. ". . . but, daddy, I did see

the man. He got away to the fog."
"One moment, please," said Sanders. 
"Mr. Peters?"
"For heaven's sake — another interruption?" 
The child of 10 spoke
like a trouper of 40. "Heck, Mr.
Peters, J. was just, getting it."
"Okay, Daisy, relax!" One of
the men, thick-set, bald-headed,
stared at the intruders truculently.
"What the devil do you want,
Gerry? We'll be on the air in 35
minutes. Time's been changed
again."
"Whew!" The stranger dropped
into a chair and mopped his brow
with a wilted handkerchief. It was
the first human thing he had done.
"Thanks, Jim."
These fools think I'm not Gerry
Hone. One of them is a police captain." 

"Well, for crying out loud!"
Peters eyed Sara and Sanders as if
they were two-headed monsters.
Sanders spoke wearily. "Any
doubt about it, Mr. Peters?"
"Doubt?" Peters looked at the
changeling and grinned. "Gerry
and I have had two shows on the
air for over a year. When you've
been through that many rehearsals
with a guy, you kind of get so you
know him by sight. This is Gerry
Hone, all right Everyone at this
table knows him. Am I right?"
The answer came in chorus.
"Sure." "Of course." "For the love
of Mike . . ."
"Sorry to bother you, but it
happens to be important. There's
a stolen ruby involved worth at
least $50,000."
"Well!" Peters looked at the
stranger. "You got it, Gerry? We
wouldn't have to worry about a
sponsor then!"
"Nope. I never even saw the
thing."
"But you did!" cried Sara. "It
was you who picked it off the
counter in the 10-cent store and
urged me to buy it."
"Oh, that" The stranger, wiped
his brow, again. "But I thought it
was junk then. I had no idea it
was real."
Sanders sighed. "Better call it a
day, Miss Dacre. You can't beat
this. Right?"
Sara was more exhausted than
the stranger. She turned to him
and opened her lips to mouth apologies— 
and closed them again, as
he stretched out an arm, reaching
for one of the typescrips.
"Now I'm here, I'll check the
time for you," he said.
"We've done that already."
Peters, tapped the end of his nose
with his forefinger in the old radio 
pantomime. "Right on."
"Any cuts?"
"Only two."
Already they were absorbed in
their show.
"Let's go, Miss Dacre," whispered 
Sanders.
Without a word, she followed
him.
"Now that scene on the beach,
where Alice grabs—."


Press Holds Key

rican democracy lies in the hands
of the American Negro.
"It is your responsibility, to take
the initiative to work and preserve

America, maintain our present
ideals and work out our problems
within the framework of our present 
institutions. The whole free
world looks to us for leadership.
We are the true ambassadors, and
those most capable of maintaining
this ideal."

Mental Test For
Park Policeman
The
Board of Police and Park Surgeons
has ordered a mental test for Park
Police Pvt. Matthew Harrison, who

was freed by a jury last week on
charges of killing his wife and her
male companion.
Harrison was restored to duty
Monday by Edward J. Kelly, superintendent 
of National Capital Parks
who said there was no alternative.
Harrison went before the board
as a routine matter to determine
that he had suffered no injuries
while on voluntary leave.
The board rejected him for restoration 
at this time because of his
testimony during the trial that he
could not recall events immediately
after finding his wife and her lover
together.

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