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Buttered Side Down Edna Ferber

Where The Car Turns At 18th

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He was back again in fifteen minutes, with a bottle in his hand. He should have known better than to choose carbolic, being a druggist, but all men are a little mad at such times. He lay down at the edge of the thin little bed that was little more than a pallet, and he turned his face toward the bare spot that could just be seen in the gathering gloom. And when he raised the bottle to his lips the old-time sweetness of his smile illumined his face.

Where the car turns at Eighteenth Street there is a big, glaring billboard poster, showing a group of stalwart young men in white ducks lolling on shores, of tropical splendor, with palms waving overhead, and a glimpse of blue sea in the distance. The wording beneath it runs something like this:

"Young men wanted. An unusual opportunity for travel, education and advancement. Good pay. No expenses."

When I see that sign I think of Eddie Houghton back home. And when I think of Eddie Houghton I see red.

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