Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

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WAS nearing one of the shops when out of a door hurried a young American woman, Mrs. Merton, whom I knew slightly. Looking up and down the street anxiously, she caught sight of 2 me and said rather wildly as 1 bowed and would have passed on, “Oh, please, have you seen anything of Teddy?” “Teddy!” I repeated in astonishment. You-mean-your-er—.” “No, no!” she cried. “My sister’s. That is the worst part of it; she would be wild if I should lose him! Oh, we must find him; we must!” “Yes, yes, of course we'll find him,” I assured her; and thereupon I began to look up and down the street. “Do you think that he might have gone home?” I ventured, as there was no sign of Teddy anywhere along the street. “Why, perhaps he has,” she said, brightening. “He knows the way home, I think, as we live not far from here. But, would you—would you— mind, if, that is would it be too much trouble to ask you to come with me, so that in case we don’t find him, you could notify the police or something?” she queried, distress written plainly on her face. I assured her it would be no trouble at all and that I would gladly be of any assistance to her. As we walked along in the direction of her home, both alert for the little runaway, I asked her to tell me something about Teddy. “Oh, he is such a darling!” she began enthusiastically. “He has the dearest curly brown hair and the brightest brown eyes in his cute little face. He’s so good, and oh, he is too cute in a little red coat that Edith, my sister, made him! I know you'd love him; you couldn’t help it.” “Indeed!” said I rather doubtfully, for I’m not passionately fond of youngsters. “How old did you say he is?” I interrogated. “T don’t think I said, did 12” she laughed. “But he has acquired the great age of three years.”

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Cia} HE speaker's address on “Preparedness” before the A. H. S. VA Army ended thus: ‘Alameda must be prepared! We hear constantly in military circles that Alameda is infested with spies! It is the duty of you boys to be on the lookout! YOURS must be that work!” After that speech no stranger was safe in Alameda. He was stared at, questioned, and followed. One day a young member of Company ———?, was on his way home to his beef tea, when he was passed by a foreign-looking individual carrying a round, ball-like package. He plainly showed that dire results would follow any care- lessness in handling it. The patriotism in the cadet’s fluttering heart was im- mense, having been inspired by the furtherest end of General Miles’ musket. Stealthily, like a thief in the night, our hero followed the stranger, pausing only when the newspaper wrapped around the spherical object flapped apart, re- vealing a sure-enough bomb! Our hero thought of his mother and her cat, and a lump came into his throat. But his eyes flashed fire and he sped on, love of country and visions of a plaster of Paris cross augmenting his horrible desire to kill. Forgetting that his leggings and buckskins hindered normal running, he soon was so close to the spy that he could hear the sizzle of the fuse in the bomb. Drawing his toad-stabber from his back pocket, the young Alamedan pounced upon the stranger, and the bomb rolled to the gutter. Cursing shock- ingly, the stranger punched the cadet in the nose, and with wild glances toward the bomb, rushed off in the direction of the North Pole. The cadet, his face illumined by the staunch patriotism of a Washington crossing the Estuary, did not falter. He stooped to the gutter. As by the stroke of a wand, the bomb became a humming mass and our hero a dilapidation of stinging flesh. A thous- and bees swarmed around him, claiming him as a long lost cousin. He is in bed still, occupying his time, so ‘tis said, on an essay on “‘Military Training in the High School!” —Paul St. Sure, June ’19 and Russel Medcraft, Dec. ’16

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“By Jove!” I exclaimed, “I didn’t realize he was as young as that. | should fancy you are alarmed about his being out on this thoroughfare alone ;” and I hastened my steps, for I had visions of dashing horses or speeding motors crushing the life out of the poor little chap. Mrs. Merton looked up at me as I said this, and seeing that I had now become really worried and anxious, her face paled and her voice quivered as she said, “You see, now, Mr. Pierman, how frightened I am. And I am so much more anxious because he isn’t mine. He is everything to her. Oh, she will be wild—wild if anything should happen to him. Oh, dear me!” I tried to calm her, and told her I felt sure we should find him safe and sound somewhere. But as we passed block after block, with no sign of him, my anxiety was not lessened. On the contrary, my companion was very quiet now, so quiet, in fact, that I looked down at her, and to my consterna- tion I found she was struggling hard to keep the tears back. Now, a weeping woman always sets me on edge, for I never know what she is going to do next; and on this occasion it was the last straw, and I blurted out, “Please don’t do that—don’t you know, ah—can’t you see that—, ah—oh that it won't be any use—that it won’t do any good?” “You s-stupid! I can’t h-help it,” she wailed. ‘‘S-suppose I should n-never see dear little T-Ted again—I d-don’t know what my sister—.”” But the last was incoherent as she sobbed in her handkerchief, no doubt thinking me a most inhuman wretch. But I was provoked. “Of all beastly situations!” I muttered, swinging my cane viciously in air, vowing never again to help a weeping American woman find a three year old Teddy; and I stalked ahead. But just then we were nearing a stately resi- dence in South Park Row, when, surprised by a little cry of delight, I turned and saw my late companion flying thru the gate and up to the steps. There she stooped and gathered something into her arms. “Did zee poor lil fellow come home all by his self, and didn’t he get runned over at allie—well ducky boy ,” came wafted on the air to my astonished ears. “See, Mr. Pierman!” she called holding up her prize. ‘Here's Teddy!” I gasped and nearly lost my balance, for in her arms, arrayed in a s carlet coat, was—a curly, brown, lap-dog! ! Pearl Nichols, °17