O.O. McIntyre

Indianapolis Star/September 4, 1920

NEW YORK, Sept. 3—Unless an outraged citizenry rebels, there seems to be nothing left but tamely to submit to police clubbing, without provocation, on New York streets. Just now a cowed populace is aghast at the suspension of two brutal policemen who clubbed two men into insensibility and left them each blinded in one eye. The victims were not resisting.

Miss Rosetta Duncan is a young musical comedy actress from California who is appearing with Fred Stone. She drove into one of the side streets in the Forties one night recently to park her car while she made a hurried visit to a stage door.

A bright particular Sir Galahad of “New York’s finest” told her through the side of his mouth to “get t’hell outen there!” Miss Duncan drove around the block, left her car in another spot, saw that a taxicab—which gets special privileges for some unexplained reason—parked where her car was and as she passed the policeman said in half jest: “Now, does that suit you?”

It evidently did not. For with a muttered oath he lunged at the young girl, who is 17 and in short curls, and told her she was under arrest. She was so dazed by the suddenness of the attack that she swooned, and when she revived she was being dragged by the wrists through the streets to a police station.

Miss Duncan, however, was not completely cowed and before she reached the station she told her rough-neck escort in unlovely but expressive language that she regarded him as “a feeble-minded simp.” This was lese majesty. When she reached the station she was thrown into a room with a lot of half-dressed policemen, who jeered at her and asked her insulting questions.

She was denied the privilege of telephoning to her sisters, who were by this time distracted by her absence. Finally she was bundled into a patrol wagon with thieves, women of the streets and the pickings of the underworld. It was a kind-hearted matron who upon locking her in a cell saw that she was merely a child—a girl of refinement—and she interceded so that she could telephone friends, who promptly arrived with bail.

It so happens that Miss Duncan is of an influential family and has influential friends, and her treatment has started a movement which, if corrective methods are not used at once, will result in citizens forming a league to protect themselves from the very servants whom they hire for protection. It might be added that Miss Duncan’s case was immediately dismissed before the presiding magistrate.

Hamish MacLauren used to be a reporter on the Evening World. Then he became publicity impresario for the largest movie palace in town. He was at a little dinner party one night when he confided to a friend that his ambition was to write fiction. “But I can not plot a story.” The host thought he could and said he would gamble with him on his first yarn. He would allow him a drawing account and they were to split the first story check—if it arrived. Three months later MacLauren met his old friend who congratulated him, for his stories have been selling as fast as he writes them. “How do you like the writing game now?” asked the friend. “It is a tough life,” sighed MacLauren. “I can plot like a villain now—but durn It I cannot write.”

A group of young ladies were lighting up their first cigarettes after the matinee in a Fifth avenue oolong parlor the other afternoon. Two strangers came in and occupied the opposite table. They appeared to be mid-Western buyers. They ordered tea and then one took a flask from his hip pocket. He started to pour out a drink when at the same time both saw the group of girls. “Let’s get out of here,” they said together. It seems they didn’t realize what a tough place they were getting into.