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Show Once Upon a Subway shaoIt?tory George beamed happilv "Yes, isn't it" i y-at y-at him. She seemed?, aft,iW repeated stupidly, "How did you I mean ..." "I'm Sally Grant, I'm in your 9:30 sociology class," she explained explain-ed quickly. -Oh, I Well, isn't that nice," ?why anything might happen. Yes, that's it. I'll just say, Oh, I beg your pardon, but aren't you in my 9:30 sociology class? I've found the most interesting item in this morning's paper relating to ' She interupted his rehearsal by closing her book and draw- -ing on a pair of short, white gloves. George started to his feet so abruptly that they collided col-lided in mid-aisle as the train lurched into the 116th street station. "Oh, I say I beg your pardon," he choked with embarrassment. He could think of nothing else to say; the sDeech he had rehearsed was, of course, out of the question now. "Why that's all right," she smiled that wonderful smile again, "Professor Whitmore." He could feel the lump in his throat. "Professor Whitmore ? he GEORGE WHITMORE folded his1 morning "Times" precisely in quarters, careful not to take up : more than his rightful share of epace in the crowded subway. He was almost middle-aged and looked look-ed a little like Jimmy Stewart serious and long legged. He wore his reading glasses horn-rimmed ones. The kind that is standard equipment for professors in fiction. fic-tion. He scanned the headlines dutifully duti-fully before turning to the foot of the page and the lesser items which were his reason for buying a paper. Scandals, to the average person, they were from a sociological sociolo-gical angle, highly worthwhile reading; at least that is how they impressed George, who was a professor of this science. He fumbled fum-bled for the red pencil which he carried for the express purpose of i noting certain of these items. Lat er they would be clipped and filed away neatly for reference in connection with the book he would someday write on "Sociolo- ' gy in City Life." There were few such items this morning, the entire paper being given over to news of the presidential presi-dential election. Professor Whitmore Whit-more lowered his paper reluctantly. QAnd it was in the process of lowering low-ering his paper that he looked up and saw her the girl. He recognized recog-nized her immediately, surprised to discover that he had always known just how she would look. She was very young and so pretty that she was pretty even without make-up. The electric fan rippled her loose, silky hair gently, like a summer breeze. She was reading read-ing a book and she looked as if she belonged in a porch swing rather than a subway. It was unlike George to be terribly ter-ribly impressed by a girl, particularly particu-larly to the point of staring. But he found himself staring at this girl. Hastily he raised his paper. He re-read the article which he had red penciled. His eyes ticked off the words obediently but they might have been Egyptian heiro-glyphics heiro-glyphics for all the sense they made. It rather shocked him to find he could no longer concentrate concen-trate on his paper. "What the devil's the matter mat-ter with me?" he asked himself him-self irritably. "Anyone would think I'd never seen a pretty girl before much less that I'm surrounded by the creatures crea-tures practically every day of the week in the interests of higher education. He ventured another look over the top of his paper by way of comparison. The girl's small, tanned face wore a look of absorption. ab-sorption. Evidently she enjoyed reading. Her book, he noted approvingly, ap-provingly, was too large and cumbersome to be a novel. It gave him reason to hope that she might be his kind of person. Suddenly he knew that he must find out all about her. Whether she read, as he did, because she would rather do that than anything else in the world if she enjoyed breakfast in bed with the Sunday papers, and how a proposal of marriage from a professor of sociology would impress im-press her. But how he was to accomplish all this he had not the vaguest idea. He continued to watch her, hoping hop-ing that with luck he might at leasl discover the color of her eyes before srfe walked out of his life forever, never knowing that he loved her. He who had invariably invar-iably expressed impatience with such nonsense, had fallen in love on sight. S Presently the subway pulled into in-to the 34th street station and the girl glanced up from her book. Her eyes were brown or green. Witti little golden flecks. Like the speckled trout running a deep, clear stream. 'Then she looked straight at him.. She must have known he was watching her. And then, miraculously, the corners of her moyth began to tug 'upwards and she gave him the most wonderful won-derful smile, almost as though they were old friends. It made a great lump come up in his throat that did not budge until she again lowered eyes and smile to the book. "Incredible," he said to himself. him-self. What he really meant was, "Whew!" It was unmistakable. That smile had been as direct as a propped handkerchief. But why a nice, young girl should smile that way at a strange man, one who wasn't even good-looking that was something that George Whitmore just couldn't understand. But he was pleased none the less, for it seemed that fate, instead of passing pass-ing him by for the mediocre sort of chap he was, had singled him out by bringing him to the attention at-tention of this enchanting creature. crea-ture. He decided that he would rise to the occasion toss convention to the winds! She would not walk out of his life at the next station he wouldn't let her. He would well, just what would he do? Just introduce himself? Say, I'm George Whitmore, professor of sociology at Columbia university and I fell in love the moment I saw you?" No. He would have to find some pretext for speaking speak-ing to her. Invent something if need be. But why invent? Her smile was the perfect pretext. He would take her up on that smile. He was on his feet, moving toward to-ward her, when somewhere in the car there was a loud snicker. George froze with the certainty that it was meant for him. He tried to hide his confusion by turning to the I.R.T. directory on the wall, pretending that it had beten the reason for leaving his seat. He studied it intently for a convincing interval before sitting down again. Suddenly he had a perfectly wonderful idea! Even Emily Post couldn't help but approve 'a professor's pro-fessor's stopping to pass the time of day with one of his students. And that's exactly what he would do. Pretend to take her for a student of his; speak to her about a subject which had come up in j class. And by the time the case 1 of mistaken identity was straight- ' ened out and he had apologized i and properly introduced himself ! |