Arsenal Technical High School - Arsenal Cannon Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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on the register, and the fact that he was signing just below the scrawled signature of Robert Kingston didn't help matters any. Robert Kingston! He was the internal revenue man who had disappeared so mysteriously last month. ir 'A- is A- The sun was setting on the sixth day of his stay in the mountains as Phil was driving back to Wakefield from one of his daily excursions into the country. For some unknown and puzzling reason, the mountain- eers liked Phil. But the fact that they were always speaking of them revenoo fellers from Washington who were always snoopin' around, and of what they would do to one of them varmints if they ever caught him, did not add to Phil's peace of mind. The more he thought about it, the less he liked his assignment. Why did the chief send me on this worthless routine job when there's those opium smugglers on the Pacific Coast and that gang of counterfeiters in Chicago I'm just dying to get my hands on? he thought, as he eased the car in low gear down a steep hill. There's an undercurrent of hostility among these people that's ominous. These hillbillies are known to have killed prohibition men. Ieepers! It gives me the creeps! A sudden turn in the road revealed a tiny town. A nearby sign read, Welcome to Beattysville. Nig- ger, don't let the sun set on you here. A mirthless laugh caught in Phil's throat, and he wished he was in Timbuctoo. He reached for his cigarette case and found it empty. Across the road was a general store. I hope they've got my brand here, he said to him- self as he parked the Ford. A few minutes later when he returned to the car, he was grabbed by the arm before he could turn around. i' i 1- i' The Iustice of the Peace adjusted his spectacles and stared intently at Phil for what seemed ages. This silent scrutiny was beginning to get on his nerves when the officer of the law cleared his throat and asked, Where might you be from, young fel- ler? Indianapolis, Indiana. H'm. I thought so. What's yer bizness? I'm a photographer. Phil matched the Iustice's piercing stare with level eyes. H'm. You city fellers seem to make quite a racket, as you call it, out of this here pitcher-takin' bizness. I get along. The Iustice rapped the gavel sharply. The prison- er will please address the judge as 'your honor.' Phil swallowed. All right,-your honor. How long are you intendin' to stay in these parts? As long as necessary, your honor. Now, if you don't mind too much, would it please the court to tell me why I'm here? I'd rather appreciate it. H'm. Impertinent young fellers, you Yankees. Do you realize you've been driving a car in the state of Kentucky with an Indiana license? Phil's jaw dropped. Why, you can drive any place in the United States with an Indiana license, he said. He almost added, you dope, but thought better of it. Not in Kentucky, you can't! the Iustice retorted. Then he read aloud from a sheet of paper: Charges: Driving without proper license, resisting arrest, and contempt of court. Fine: S70 and costs, or a total of 59053. Sentence: Six months in jail. Sentence sus- pended. It was dusk when Phil reached the hotel in Wake- field. Now that the first fit of anger was over, he had to face unpleasant facts. After paying his fine, his net capital amounted to exactly thirty-eight cents. He couldn't remain in Wakefield without money, and he couldn't leave the hotel without paying his bill. Be- sides, he didn't have the price of a bus ticket to Deni- son, and the gasoline tank in the Ford was practi- cally empty. From the lobby Phil put through a call to the Plaza Hotel in Denison and asked for Mr. Iohn Daniels. After a short wait that seemed an eternity, a voice said into his ear, Sorry, lVIr. Iohn Daniels checked out today at noon. He left no forwarding address. In spite of his better judgment, Phil became panic stricken. Iohn had left Denison. That meant but one thing. He had been suspected and had pulled out. He probably was halfway to Washington by now. Phil ascended the stairs, his mind filled with appre- hension and all sorts of wild, inconceivable notions. He entered his room, locked the door, walked to the window, and let the cool mountain air caress his hot cheeks. The far-away West Virginia mountains were as inaccessible as the next town. He knew very well that within a short time, perhaps even now, they would know the truth. That hotel manager in Denison certainly knew that Iohn Daniels was a revenue man, and he would be sure to report Phil's call to the local constable. And the constable, illiterate as he was, would conclude that the only person in Wakefield who would have occasion to call a federal agent in Denison was none other than the suspicious-looking picture-taking stranger at the hotel. Phil resolved to get out of town, and quickly. He opened the door and peered cautiously up and down the dimly-lighted hall. Nobody in sight. Holding his breath, he crossed the hall and attained the head of the stairs. Gingerly, he descended, then strolled non- chalantly through the lobby and out the door, pain- fully aware of the curious eyes of the manager. There was no light: that was a break. He saw his Ford parked in front of the hotel where he had left it a few short minutes ago, a veritable haven of refuge. Phil looked up and down the street. Nobody in sight. He made a mad dash, expecting at any moment to be fContinued on page 361 31

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UN IIN ell, I guess this is good-bye for now, Phil. One of the two occupants of the car broke the silence and flashed a quick smile at his companion as he made a tentative motion to open the door. The one addressed as Phil exhaled a long sigh of resignation to fate, then answered slowly, Yes, I suppose it is, Iohn. Iohn looked concerned, then said cheerfully, Look here, this dashed apprenticeship will soon be over. Then we'll be regular federal agents, given real as- signments, and-and everything. Don't let it get you down. I wish I were back in New York, Phil replied. Iohn feigned disgust. Come on, snap out of it. This is 1928 and we're in the hills of old Kentucky to clean up moonshining, remember? Don't remind me, Phil groaned. This is a fine kettle of fish! We'll probably mould down here for years and years, enjoying good old mountain hos- pitality until we are completely forgotten. Oh, it won't be as bad as all that, his friend observed brightly. Who knows, we might even un- cover a still! Yes, and get shot for our trouble, Phil added pes- simistically. Remember what they did to Robert Kingston! Even Iohn's buoyant spirits drooped momentarily at the mention of Robert Kingston. Well, anyway, we may get some good pictures since we're posing as photographers, he ventured as he climbed out of the car. Yeh, Phil retorted. These hillbillies ought to make swell models. Iohn was leaning against the door, beaming down affectionately at his friend. Aw, come on, he coaxed. You'll probably win first prize with your pictures at the exhibition next fall. Phil glanced furtively over his shoulder and an- swered, If I get out of these hills alive. He watched Iohn Daniels, his last link with civi- lization, walk jauntily across the street, pause for a moment on the threshold of a frame building marked Plaza Hotel, then disappear from view. Phil raised his hand in a grim salute at the doorway through which he had passed. With the sun at his back, and Iohn, the town of Denison, and the Plaza Hotel far behind, Phil la- boriously followed the mountain road to Wakefield. In his mind he was reviewing the kaleidoscope of events that had happened since he and Iohn had stood side by side in caps and gowns and received their diplomas on commencement day four years ago. They had come a long way since then. And now, after passing civil service examinations and enduring endless successions of target practice and lessons in modern criminal investigation, they had 30 ENESS - SHEET? found themselves as recruits of the Bureau of Internal Revenue, sent out on their first assignment. And what a fine place the chief picked to send his two best rookies! Phil thought sourly. This section of the country seemed a rustic oasis amid a cultured, civilized world. A year ago-a month ago, had anyone told Phil that such an iso- lated place existed within the United States, he would have scoffed at him. The roads were treacherous, the people were hostile, even the towns had an unfriend- ly air. Yet, the landscape had a wild and rugged beauty that could not be matched. Here, the pines smelled sweeter: the foliage of the hemlock and ma- ple against the distant mountains appeared greener: the transparent sky overhead was a deeper, more infinite blue: the air was fresher, cleaner: and the soft breeze whispered soothingly to the lonely stranger. The sun had just dropped from a saffron sky as Phil drove the Ford down the main street of the little hamlet of Wakefield, in the eastern part of Kentucky, some fifteen miles by a narrow, twisting mountain road from Denison. He parked in front of the most pretentious-looking building. A small, hand-painted sign proclaimed this two-story brick structure built on the style of a Southern plantation house to be the Mountain View Hotel. Armed with a single suitcase, his camera and tri- pod, Phil pushed open the door, sauntered across the lobby, and hesitantly approached the desk. The lob- by was heavily carpeted, had mirror-paneled walls, and artificial palms adorning the Corinthian-style pillars, giving the place a pompous, ostentatious atmosphere. At Phil's approach, an elderly, gray-haired man aroused himself from a fitful nap. He peered at the young man from over the top of his spectacles, then spoke in a rasping voice. How do, young feller. What would you be a-wantin'? Thrown off guard by this unceremonious greeting, Phil stretched his mouth into what he hoped was a friendly smile, and stammered, Well, you see, I- that is, I'd like to have a room. Oh, you would! The old man contemplated him further, then asked, What's yer bizness? I-I'm a photographer. I came down here to take pictures. Phil hoped he sounded convincing. Whur you from? Indianapolis, Indiana. To Phil's utter amazement, the old man broke into a chuckle and said, Well, I guess you're O.K., young feller. But we have to be mighty keerful, you know. There's been a passel of strangers down here lately, and we don't want none of them there federal men a-snoopin' around. No siree! Somehow, Phil managed to sign his name legibly

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. ESTHEB KASEY What is this thing called war? War is a disease: a cancerous, terrifying disease that gnaws hungrily at the hearts of people. lt grows and grows, and its ugly rumors travel throughout the country with a speed that is unequaled by our modern, streamline trains. lt hovers silently over peaceful, friendly na- tions, waiting with vicious, deadly claws extended to pounce upon its prey at the first visibility of weak- ness. lt swoops down from dizzying heights, on wings as hushed as the coming of the dawn, to bury its fangs deep into a country paralyzed by fear. Overnight, people become grim-faced and desper- ate. Overnight, from happy, carefree human beings tions, waiting with vicious, deadly claws extended trembling shells of their former selves. Friends be- come suspicious of one another, neighbor glances distrustfully at neighbor, and everyone is seized with the dreaded thought that loved ones may be lost to them forever. Then comes the call for enlistment! An irresistible force urging the people onward, rushing them pell- mell into destruction! The tangible but invisible men- ace known as War watches the turmoil from above, and rocks with fiendish glee as the nation's finest young men are listed for duty. Throngs of people crowd railway stations, spending last precious mo- ments vvith those who are dear to them. Sons, hus- bands, brothers, and Sweethearts try gallantly to hide their terror behind masks of frivolity and cheer- fulness and with witty remarks. The train roars grandly into the station, command- ing attention and respect from all who are present. The steam rushes from the engine as though it were impatient at the delay. With a last good-bye, the boys climb into the train. Some with a mother's prayer locked in their hearts and some with a sweetheart's kiss on their lips strain their eyes for a last glimpse of their loved ones as a derisively hooting train bears them from sight. Years later, the heroes return. But what a change has been wrought! The happy, carefree boys and men who left return haggard and weary. Some are shell-shocked, some are maimed, and still others car- ry deep scars for life. Many windows now contain gold stars, while the families grieve deeply for those they will never see again. Now and only now is this demanding, maniacal monster quelled. With a satisfied leer and a last hor- rible chuckle, it turns its attention to other unsuspect- ing countries. Behind it is a path of heartbreak, mis- ery, and sorrow that is almost too deep to bear. It leaves a living scar that will linger in everyone's memory for years to come. ls there no way to kill this disease? Must our 32 young men face the horrors and misery of another war? Will our families once more be heartbroken and grieving? Must people forever live in dread? Oh God, from the depths of our hearts We pray to be delivered from this thing called War, the most horrible of all horrors. T TWEEWE ' MARGARET M I L L E B He was lonely. As a matter of fact, most boys of twelve are lonely-for the simple reason that they're not understood. lf they comb their hair and wash their faces, they're teased about their best girl: and if they don't, they're called tramps-just plain tramps. He was more than lonely as he sauntered through his favorite alley this day: he was hurt, really hurt. lt hadn't been his fault that his mother couldn't stand the odor of dead fish in his room: or that his sister shrieked when he dropped worms down her back: or that the goldfish died because he took them out to change the water and laid them on the floor. He might as well run away. He guessed they didn't want him hanging around anyway. He'd go away on a visit for awhile: and then they'd be sorry. He wondered whom they'd pick on while he was away. The dog, maybe. Gee! He'd forgotten all about the dog. Sis didn't like it. Maybe while he was away, she would talk Mom into getting rid of it. She was like that, Sis was. She might even turn it out into the cold. He might go back and get the dog. He could sneak in through the basement window and no one would know the difference. Maybe his mother would see him and ask him to stay: but he wouldn't do it. He'd show her. Turning and retracing his footsteps, he arrived at last at the place where he had resolved never to return until he could dazzle his family by dashing up in a limousine with a chauffeur. He felt rather silly, breaking into his own home- but it wasn't his home any more. Crash! That window pane! He'd forgotten that the basement window came out so easily. Andrew Mortimer Bigsby! came from the back door. March yourself into this house at once! It was his mother. Why did she have to yell his entire name out so all the neighbors could hear? His middle name particularly bothered him. Well, he might as well go in and face the music. He couldn't get away tonight. She was probably sor- ry by now, anyway. No use punishing her any more. He might even pay for the window out of his allow- ance, if she wanted him to. Besides, he smelled steak for supper. Ah, good old home, sweet home! Maybe he could find time to run away at some later date.