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Jim Henry's Column
A New Message
Our sales of Mennen Shaving Cream are growing so rapidly that I am going to let the Cream ride for a week or two and use my column to boost Kora-Konia.
There's something baffling about KoraKonia. It's unquestionably the most beneficent thing our chemists have ever invented—means more to the human race in comfort and escape from skin misery— but it doesn’t sell the way it should.
Of course, we sell a lot of it but nothing like what we would if more people would try it.
Some people blame it on the name— say you can’t remember it. The other day I heard a lady ask for Korna Kopia. It seents easy enough to me. It’s a classic name, too—comes from the Greek and Latin —though I don't know why. Try it yourself slowly—K-O-R-A K-O-N-I-A.
Kora Konia has a lot of gracious virtues —marvelous for babies—but I feel more in my element talking about its goodness for men, preferably over-size, heavily muscled men.
To put aside all false delicacy—do you get raw when you walk or play golf?
Chafing isn't organic—it's a matter of faulty design—a problem for an engineer rather than a doctor.
Your bearings need better lubrication.
Kora-Konia covers the skin with a clinging film of powder which stays where it’s put—perspiration doesn’t wash it away. A film of Kora-Konia absolutely prevents friction and chafing. But Kora-Konia is also a healing powder of extraordinary potency. It dries up raw flesh, reduces inflammation and removes soreness. Perfectly miraculous for sunburn. I wish you would try it. Let me send you a big trial box for 15 cents and keep it at the club. The first application will give you undreamed of relief. If you are permitted to talk about such things, recommend it to some mother for diaper rash. Remember the name—Kora-Konia.
Send 15 cents for a big trial box.
*THe Menne N COMpany
* * * ~ *
think of it, why should all be working for a few miserable dollars a day and helping to make Porter a rich man? Why should we?”
“I dunno,” I said grinning at him. “Ask the boss why? And if possible, let me know in advance, so I can be in the room when you ask him.”
“I’ve listened to him,” Red continued. “He's a thinker, and he says some mighty interesting and true things to those foreigners. It wouldn’t do you any harm, Andy, to hear him talk. He has ideas.”
FOUND out that while Feodor had ideas, they all ran the same way. He rarely varied from his theme, which was that our imported labor was being ground down under the cruel heel of capitalism. They seemed to like that talk, so Feodor stuck to it. During the day he pretended to boss the outfit at work, but it was the evening when he really enjoyed himself. He held meetings up at the camp, over which he was the chairman. He made the motions, delivered all the speeches personally, led in the cheering, worked himself into a spasm, overturned the Government and nationalized labor. Now and then he drifted into the bunk house. He was full of interesting theories, and he knew words that you rarely hear in a corner conversation. The bunk-house gang merely grinned at him and put Limburger cheese in his pockets. I sat in myself a few times, and learned that Boss Porter was a cruel and grinding master who was | coining the sweat of our brow into miser's gold. What we needed, Feodor said, was a new outlook. We were suffering under a psychic strain and we failed to take the creative view of life. There was a world-wide psychic conflict at hand, and it behooved us to leap in and take our part, instead of sulking on the side lines. “You are the real owners of this ranch.” Feodor shouted, looking at Red Monahan. “You do the work. You create the wealth which flows year by year into the pockets of the Porters. He is a nonproducer, and you are his slaves. There is a revolutionary overturn at hand and if you fail to take part in it, so much the worse for you. When the soviet form prevails in this country, men like you will be set aside to perish from starvation.” At this point I decided to throw Feodor through a window, but the boys held me back. “What for?” Eddie Brainard asked me. “He ain't doing any real harm. We get tired of the victrola now and then. Let him rave.” “And another thing,” Red Monahan said, after this particular oration was over and Feodor had gone back to his people. “Don’t you be so hasty about Feodor. You may be all wrong, and he may be right. There's a heap of truth in what he says. We do the work on this ranch, so why shouldn’t we have the profits?” “You asked me that once before,” I answered. “I still don't know the answer.” In justice to the rest, it ought to be
said that Red was the only one who felt
this way about Feodor. As the days went by, Red leaned further and fur
ther toward the soviet form of government, and he actually got to the point of personal dissatisfaction. He wanted to take the ranch off the boss's hands and run it for him, leaving the house as it was for the family, but | charging so much rent per month, to be paid into the general pool. He offered to give the boss so much a month for expenses. It was quite a scheme he cooked up all by himself. I spoke to the old man about this proposed change in the management, and he only grinned. “Wouldn't be so bad,” he remarked. “If you feel you can assure me of plenty of food, a place to live in, and
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nothing much to worry about, I see no real reason for kicking. There are times when I doubt whether this is such a bird of a ranch.” “Yes,” I said, “but there are two things I ought to do. Red seems to be breaking out with some kind of a mental rash, and I ought to fire him before he starts trouble. Then I ought to take Feodor out on the desert and hang him to a joshua tree.” “Do neither,” said the boss. “We are building ditches, and we’re in a hurry. Keeps your hands off. I want water, not blood.” “Wouldn't it be sensible to wrap a freight car around Feodor and ship him somewhere late at night?” I demanded. “It would not,” said the boss. “Leave him be. When he quits us, the whole gang will go with him. As long they keep on digging, leave them alone.” Feodor won his first demand for more pay with great ease. Within thirty-six hours the rate of remuneration had been improved to five dollars a day and the hours reduced from eight to six. Of course this slowed up progress on the ditches, but the new soviet seemed mighty pleased. It was the first result of the new psychology Feodor was always discussing. It was a definite effect of group conduct and an example of what the group mind can do. Red pointed this out to me. He and Feodor were getting chummier all the while. why they wanted shorter hours, I failed to see, because they didn't become any happier. They simply had more time to loaf and look through their whiskers, but to Red it seemed some sort of a triumph. “Of course it's right,” he said. “These men are entitled to all the pay they can get for their work.” “It's fine,” I admitted. “Why don't you try it on yourself?”
“It don't matter so much about me. I'm doing pretty well,” he said. “But I'm thinking about these poor, ignorant foreigners. My time will come.”
“It will, if Boss Porter regains his intellect,” I grunted.
EANTIME the cotton season crept nearer and nearer. The weather was as dry as it ever gets in our | part of Arizona, which is plenty dry. Feodor spouted on as usual, talking about the aura of the absolute, economic organisms and valuations and realities. He had a great deal to say about the Wested Interests, and in due time we slid head first into our next revolutionary overturn, which took the old familiar form of more dough. Feodor put on his derby hat and made another formal call on our simmering boss. “Now, what—?” he asked, looking at Feodor fixedly. “I am speaking for the men. I personally would have little to say to you did I consult my own wishes.” “You personally wouldn't have anything to say to me did I consult my wishes,” answered the chief. “You'd be dead.” “Speaking for the men,” continued Feodor cheerily,” I am authorized to point out to you that, when we get these ditches finished, you will plant cotton, sell it and keep the profits thereof for yourself. The earth grows the cotton. We, by our labor, assist the earth to do so. You do nothing, yet you get all the profits that come later, and that is entirely opposed to the new creative view of life. It is absolutely in defiance of the new psychology.” “Which means,” said the boss, “another holdup.” “It means,” said Feodor gently, “that the men desire to better their condition, which is the right of labor everywhere, as the world will soon learn.” The result of that particular conference was another change in the running time. The bohunks dropped to five hours a day and drew seven dollars and a half, in addition to their fodder.
In spite of his growing irritation the boss kept his temper. It seemed to me that he must have taken a solemn oath not to break loose, but I trembled when I thought what might, happen when those ditches were finished and the gang started home. Red Monahan was getting more Bolshevistic every day. I watched him sink steadily into a communistic state of mind, and I expected to have him get a wire from Trotzky, ordering him to board the first fast express for Russia and help run the Government. Feodor gave Red a book explaining how the soviet form had improved Russia and made it over into a sweet and lovely land, where no one had to work. Mr. Monahan read it carefully and mooned about the wrongs of the working classes. He even spoke to Mr. Porter about it. And the most amazing part of it was that Porter only looked sadly at Red.
HE ditch digging went on, but not with any great enthusiasm. Of course, progress was slower and slower on account of those five hours a day. I began to see where the Vested Interests around that ranch wouldn't have a vest to their name if they continued to depend upon a cotton crop. At the camp the downtrodden proletariat did just as they jolly well pleased, played curious musical instruments in their spare time, pitched horseshoes, and shot craps. I watched them work during the official five hours of toil, and I have never seen a sadder sight. There was a deliberation about it that fascinated ille. Red Monahan veered off from his bunk-house associates and spent a lot of time up at camp, sympathizing with the excavators and talking over the wrongs of the lower classes with Feodor. Conditions were mighty unsatisfactory all around. It was necessary for something to happen and clear the air, and it did happen. Red's affair with Nora had been going right along, beside his new fervor over the cause of communism and soviet rule. He had cast off all his bad habits and was a perfect citizen. He continued to hand Nora about 85 per cent of his pay, and she must have had a couple of trunkfuls of gifts. One day the boss sent me and Red up to Phoenix with a load of steers, and when we returned to the ranch Red left me, and Mary Porter came around a corner looking as if something had happened. Then Red showed up, and when I looked at him, I knew it had. “Where's Nora?” he asked. “Gone,” said Mary. “Gone where?” “We don't know. She went to bed as usual the night before last. In the morning she was nowhere to be found. Her room was empty and her trunk was gone. It’s a mystery to us, because we thought she liked it here.” It remained a .."; for another half hour, and then Jake Davis galloped in from the irrigation camp with more news. “Andy,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, “our troubles are over. Feodor is no longer with us.”
LOOKED at Red Monahan. He listened quietly to the two news items, first the disappearance of Nora without a word, and next the announcement that Feodor had taken his foot in his hand and gone far away. I wondered what Red would do. It became known that Nora had not only turned to traveling, but she had taken along the money Red had saved up for their married life amid such personal privations. She likewise removed the trinkets he had bought her, including the gold bag. Mrs. Porter added to the gayety of nations along toward noon by finding a note for Red, which Nora had pinned to a doily and which had been overlooked in the early confusion. It was simple and translated: “Dear Red: I am going away with a better man— Nora.” Red took this note and studied it in silence. He put it in his pocket and walked away, never saying a word. All that day he prowled around un
easily, like a caged tiger that is about to do something to his cage. In the afternoon he asked me if he could go into town. Hassayampa is notoriously a dry town, but Mr. Monahan certainly routed the forces of prohibition for one day. Where he got it I don’t know, but he must have got it in great abundance, and when he returned, about midnight, you could hear him coming for miles. He sounded like a tropic monsoon on the desert. Eight or nine of the employees went out into the night air and took their lives in their hands trying to round him up and get him to bed, and the next morning Red woke up with a bursting head and a completely new set of ideas about life and conduct. The first thing he did was to hold a conference with the owner of the ranch. “I find that I have made a couple of mistakes,” Red said to the boss, as the latter told me later on. “Some of the things I thought out, I thought out wrong, and I now wish to beg everybody's pardon for past errors, and start new. The first thing I want to do is to see if I can’t help you out a little with the new laterals.” “How?” the boss asked him. “I’ll just wander down there, with your permission,” Red said, “and see if things can’t be speeded up a bit.” “Go to it,” said the boss. I observed Mr. Monahan after this early morning conference. He was in the act of hanging a couple of large guns on his hips. Presently he climbed aboard a pony and started briskly, and he was aiming for the camp. I felt there might be something worth seeing, so I trailed him, keeping at a respectful distance, and acting solely as an uninvited observer.
T was early morning and naturally the gang had not started the day's labor, because on a schedule of five hours one can start almost any time. Red had loathed Fresno Phil
from the day he first saw him, and he
concluded that, with Feodor out of it, Fresno would be the natural leader in charge. So he headed straight for Fresno's tent. I watched him get off his horse and go inside. The next minute he appeared, dragging the assistant leader by the neck and creating more or less consternation. The socalled ditch diggers came out of their tents and looked on in whiskered amazement. “Now," yelled Red, addressing himself impartially to the gang and to Fresno, who was getting indignantly on his feet, “all of you that know English, listen hard. Hear what I have to say, and tell them that can't understand me.” “You cheap four-flusher,” Fresno Phil bellowed. “What do you mean?” “You'll know in a minute,” Red replied. “First, I'm going to make a short speech to these tramps.” “You’re mighty fresh for a greasy cow hand,” sneered Fresno. “Who told you to come up and butt in here?” | “Nobody told me,” shouted Red. “I’m butting in on my own, and I'm some butter when I start. Listen, all you anarchists. I've got my own private cemetery over behind the hill, and it's for guys I kill. I'm now prepared to kill all of you. I don't like you, and I generally kill people I don't like. You are going to do what I say from this on, and the first ditch digger that starts to duck out on me, or lay down on the job, simultaneously quits this life. There'll be no further words about it. The news is that the present working day of five hours for seven dollars and a half is hereby annulled, revoked, and ended. I’m starting a brand-new schedule for this ditch job, and the new ay is two dollars a day and the working time is ten hours.” The bohunks looked both surprised and incredulous. There was some jabbering among them. “You’re crazy,” Fresno remarked. “In a minute I’ll get around to you,” Red continued, still absorbed in making sure the gang understood him. “Ten hours a day and two bucks for
it, and be glad it ain't fourteen hours, which was what I thought of first. I'm your boss now, instead of Feodor. And in order to show you why I'm the boss, I am now going to attend to this rat.” Red stopped making his speech, took off his guns and tossed them to me. He started for Fresno Phil with the same motion, and though Fresno tried to back up rapidly and avoid the attack, he never had a chance. Red started swinging those fists that had caused all the destruction up in Wyoming, and he worked fast and accurately. It was not exactly a battle, and yet it was not a walkover, because Fresno Phil is no babe in arms. He weighed about two hundred pounds, and he was all gristle and hide, but when Red hit him the first time, it sounded like a busy day in the killing room at the stockyards. He all but caved in the side of Fresno's head with the first wallop. Fresno lost consciousness in time to save himself from a worse fate. Red ordered the bohunks to take him over to the ditch and wash him. “Now,” Red said, addressing the crowd, which was standing there silently, “you can see why I'm the boss. If any one of you wants to question the new wage scale or the new hours of labor, step forth and I will explain in my own way.” Nobody stepped. “All right,” remarked Mr. Monahan. “Get your picks and shovels and start for the ditch. To-morrow is Sunday, and you're going to spend it in honest toil.” Looking whiter and more whiskered than ever, the victims of the Vested
above them. “Now don't laugh at me,” she went on. “I tried religion. I really did. Of course that is all right if one wants to give something. But there again I was like so many others. I wanted to get something. And then there was cleverness—being a clever woman and an earnest woman. You know— causes. I adored causes. It took me a long time to tell myself the truth and realize that Emma Gammell did ninetyeight per cent of my causes—for me. I’ve been patroness of almost everything. Vice president of everything. I led a mad life dashing from meeting to meeting. However, that is all over now. I've resigned from everything.” In Claveloux there was a streak of perverse brutal directness. He looked squarely into her eyes and asked: “You mean since Emma left you?” “No, before,” she answered. “That is why she left. She knew that I had gathered up all the scatterings of my life and had put the whole bundle, which is Me, down on one investment.” “In What?” “You should say “In whom?' Well, in Adam Pine.” “And where is he?” . “Here. He has that Italian lodge down among the pines. Mr. Yates built it for a whim, and I had it altered for a summer studio and put some servants in it.” “Is this man so rare a treasure?” he asked. “You do not know him, Emlen. He is a genius. He will leave permanent beauty in the world. But, more than that, he knows nothing of real evil. He may love too much, but he does not know what hate is. He is fairly vibrant with generous devotion to ideals of beauty and of human happiness.” “But Emma went away?” he said. “Was the contest between you and Emma fair?” Her answer quite surprised him. She said: “Of course it was fair. It is always fair when it is woman against woman and there is no fraud. Haven't I a right to have Pine if I can get him? | Has. Emma a monopoly upon being an inspiration to a young man of renius? She cannot do with him as much as I can do.”
Interests picked up their implements and started the job. From that minute, work on the Porter irrigation project proceeded with what you might call impetuous precipitance. Not a day laborer quit the job, because Red sat there and threatened to send them to an untimely end. They came unanimously to the conclusion that it would be wiser not to offend this red-headed avalanche, who sat on a barrel of lime, watching them with blue eyes that never closed. So they dug. There was one job that was completed on schedule time, even a little ahead. When the job was done Red personally escorted his subdued workmen on board a freight train, paid them off, and wished them luck. He even made a little speech, pointing out the fallacy of too much pay for a day's work. The boss thanked Red, restored him to honored citizenship on the ranch, and handed him a bonus check, although Red protested against taking it.
FTER it was over, Mary Porter met Red on his way to the bunk house to take his old place in the poker crowd. “Red,” she remarked, “there's another maid coming down from San Francisco.” He grinned at her. “Which will mean nothing in my young life,” he replied. “I’ve learned two things: There ain't anything in letting a man work four hours a day, because it ruins his character and gets him into mischief. And I’m all through with women. One of them fooled me, but nobody can ever say that two of them did. I'm a one-time guy, and make no mistake about it.”
The Hands of Nara
Continued from page 11
“Lacking, as she does, two things— wiles and money,” Claveloux said sharply. “Neither represents the basis of our relationship—his and mine,” she replied indignantly. “If I were not convinced that I–myself—without emphasis upon sex or money—could be everything to him, I would give up. As it is, I know that he is everything to me. I have made up my mind to put my life —my whole life—all there is in me— down at his feet.” “You’ve always drawn most of your ideas from Emma Gammell,” he said. “Did you draw this one?” “Yes,” she answered with a calm smile. “Why shouldn't I? It was the one idea she ever gave me which led me to the finding of my one purpose in life—to a complete giving of myself!" “You know that there will be talk." Emlen told her. She sprang up, shaking her coppery hair out into the sunlight, and laughing. “There will be nothing to talk about—even when there are children!" she exclaimed. “We’re to be married."
HE young sculptor came up to Rockcrest for dinner, and he sauntered into the library as one who was already very much at home in the Yates castle. He wore a dinner suit of white habutai silk with a tie of blue, and Claveloux, who put down a foreign illustrated magazine as the other entered, would have said that Pine, with a skin naturally dark because of his admixture of Mediterranean blood, and now tanned by the outdoor life on the coast, with his large clear brown eyes and his half-boyish and half-philosophi. cally sad expression, was an attractive figure. That Adam was restless and wanting peace of mind was disclosed by the nervous, absent manner in which he touched several magazines only to throw each aside and finally dip into the teak. wood box on the gigantic table to pick out a cigarette with his dexterous fingers. “Good evening,” said Emlen calmly. The other, startled, looked up quickly. “Oh, hello, Dr. Claveloux. I knew you were coming. But you are half hidden over there in shadows.” “Been working?” The sculptor shook his head. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t. The thing I want to put into something I am doing won’t come out of me to-day. So I walked for miles.” Adam Pine smiled. “The fact is, I have something on hand just now which I’ve worked on for two weeks. It was one of those conceptions that grab me by the throat and insist I must materialize them. And yet it eludes me. If I can ever make it tell what I want it to tell, I shall use it for the Anderson memorial on the college grounds. I shall call it “The Spirit.’” “A figure?” “No, a bust—a strong, brave face— looking calmly into to-morrow. Rather uncompromising with weakness and evil. If I could ever do it, it would be a good thing for succeeding generations of young men to look upon as they came and went.” Emlen nodded. “By the way,” he said, “where did you study?”
HE sculptor laughed rather bitterly. “For a long time with the crudest of materials and tools,” he said. “Didn't you know that I spent the time from sixteen to twenty-five earning an absurd, cramped living? Whenever I wanted to do creative work without starving, I had to spend a long period working and saving. You may laugh — for nearly eight years I was forced to turn out hideous gravestones and stiff, awkward, vulgar monuments for cemeteries.” He looked around the great Yates library. “Some day I will furnish the means to those who have talents to escape all that humiliation of poverty.” “But wasn't the struggle itself half the reason for your development?” Claveloux asked. “Probably,” Pine admitted, snapping his fingers at the Airedale which had got up from the cold hearth. “Oh, yes, probably. It is the old question as to whether it is necessary to go through fire to get out whatever gold there is in a human being. I suppose it was good for me. I have been a good deal of a sybarite in spite of the poverty and struggle. Luxury and ease would have made me something worse.” He picked up a copy of a periodical, glanced over its pages idly, and then, as if he had been thinking, turned again toward the doctor. “Do you remember those hands?” he asked. There sprang up before the vision of Emlen's imagination those hands modeled from the living flesh of Nara Alexieff. To him this mention of the girl by Pine was full of ominous, unpleasant suggestion. But he could not forbear saying: “Have you seen her?” Pine shrugged his shoulders. “No. She has dropped out of sight. You remember that she expressed something like disapproval of Vanessa. It was a good thing, I dare say. I think Vanessa knows it. But the memory was unpleasant. It is always unpleasant to be shocked into an awakening. So the hands were returned to me. They'd been paid for. Do you want them?” Claveloux scowled. “You are done with her?” he growled. “You needn't be put out about it,” Pine said, apparently amazed. “I remembered how much those hands impressed you. I just wanted to tell you that they are yours for the asking.” “Thanks,” Claveloux replied; “you are very kind. When is dinner?” “Dinner!” came the voice of Mrs. Yates from the doorway. “What time is it? I’m beastly late. I’ve been riding.”
HE came across the library into the light, attired in a riding suit of olive green with a small brown straw hat with a feather in it far on the back of her braided hair. Her cheeks were full of color. Never had she appeared to Claveloux younger or more effervescent with hope and expectancy. A little table had been set among the iris plants which bloomed at the edge of the pool with its dancing bacchante. Tiny lamps shed rosy light upon the
white cloth, and the servants came out of the dust of the night like genii, barely visible, bringing rare viands from the far corners of the earth. Pine, however, had fallen into the depths of a strange, morose mood. His personality, attempting at first to enter into the interchange, gradually receded from them, and after he had swallowed the black coffee, served in little gold lacquer cups, he threw his cigarette into the water behind his chair, where its red glow disappeared with a vicious hiss, and got up. “Look at the moon!” he said. It had slid surreptitiously over the rim of the sea and had unrolled a carpet of golden light across the water. “If you don’t mind, I’ll walk,” he said as if he were a man tortured by obscure pain. Vanessa touched his hand with her finger tips as he passed her on his way into the shadows. “It is the vagary of genius,” Vanessa said. “He is struggling with some great conception. Something has inspired him.” “Are you sure it is that alone?” She leaned forward, fear leaping into her face. “Of course,” she said, “he is happy. We are both so happy! It is only this work he is creating.” “Have you seen it?” he asked. “No. I told him that I would never go near his studio,” she said. “He has asked me. I always refuse. Why? I am crazy to go. But I think it is better to keep away and use our companionship, detached from his work—use it for his stimulus—and inspiration.” She stopped as if embarrassed. “Well, I meant it—inspiration. It is possible, isn't it, Dr. Claveloux—because he loves me? That's the reason it is possible. My giving of myself— the fact that I am everything to him?” “Yes,” he said in an absent-minded manner. He had thought again of Miss Alexieff and the marble hands. He too arose. Vanessa laughed and said: “You too? The moon is not a good companion for one person, Dr. Claveloux. It is notoriously the third member of good parties of three.” He laughed. “Lead the way,” he said. “Really, I am completely in the mood. “Let’s go!”
HEY came out after a stroll of half a mile upon a clearing where the wood ended and the land dipped down again. The little hollow before them was filled with swaying mist, white and luminous as moonstone under the radiance from the ball of silver in the great dome of the sky. Vanessa spread her arms wide as if invoking the nymphs of that glen. “Oh, do you know what it is to find oneself, to give oneself, to be happy?” she exclaimed. “I think it follows good health,” Claveloux said. “Yours is a depressing opinion,” she returned. “Don’t you believe physical well-being can be created by the mind— or the soul?” “Perhaps.” “Incidentally, have you heard of the mysterious woman who has already obtained such a hold upon the rich?” “Who?” “It is quite extraordinary,” said Vanessa. “It is a thing of whispers. I heard of it from Corinne Yorke. Some strange young girl has come. No one knows who she is, or where she lives, or hardly how to reach her. She is called “The Presence.” Corinne knows as much as anyone. She says the mere presence of this girl will do wonders when you doctors have tried and can do nothing. Old Mr. Yorke, who has always been considered the hardestheaded old skinflint, was simply swept off his feet by this mysterious person. Thinks he owes his life to her. Paid her a tremendous sum. But he's been sworn to some kind of secrecy.” Claveloux stopped. He appeared to be interested intensely and a little troubled. “Look here!” he said. “Is that all you know?” “Why?”
“Because these rumors about this girl