Burlingame High School - Panther Tracks Yearbook (Burlingame, CA)

Page 23 text:

Bzzrlingazme H i gh School Hobo,', Why, Billy Tiddy is playing in Our Gang Comediesf, The only reason he's there is his childlike quality and his half-pint stature. These fel- lows are only fakes. They haven't got enough money to linance an interesting dog fight. We wandered outside and sat down by the gutter. I've got an idea, said Box Car McGuire. None of us has amounted to a whoop, but you can't tell about the rest of the gang. Maybe some of our old pals are millionaires. Well, here's the idea. We'll throw a big party down at the fashionable Palace Hotel. We'll invite every member of the class we graduated with. It'll be one of those parties where you wear old clothesg so they won't know these are the only ones welve got. We'll let the guys with all the money foot the bill. They won't mind. And then we'll borrow a little money from them and take life easy for a while. Not so bad, what? Wait a minute, chimed in Hobof' I'm gonna paraphrase that slightly. We'll get them down there and play a little poker, or, better yet, why not just take their money away from them and hop the next freight out of town? Well, the point is to get them there first, said Box Car. We'll have it a week from tomorrow night. Everybody get busy and find out what the gang are doing and invite them all. Then we'll make a report on what we found out. I went down the street to James Sooy's peanut stand and told him about the party. just as I left, Clyde Ryan came along with his dump cart. His horse must have had a grudge against jim, for he gave the stand a terrific kick, totally demolishing it. It was a terrible blow to jim, also to the stand, so I went back and let him in on our plan. He liked it very much, but he said he didn't know a single one of the bunch that had any money. Next I went down to the Silver Slipper to see Brandt Wickersham, who was master of ceremonies there. I also expected to see Doris Campe, Anna Cooke, Eleanor Kelly, and Ethelmay Hannigan, chorus girls, who were appear- ing in a current revue, thinking they might be making good money, but Bill Stamford, the doorman, told me they were the worst chorus girls that ever walked through his door, and that they had been fired the night before because they stopped in the middle of a number to pick up some pennies the crowd threw on the stage. He also gently hinted that, while there might possibly be a worse master of ceremonies than Brandt Wickersham, he doubted very much if he were living. While passing a news-stand, I unconsciously availed myself of a sport magazine and, to my surprise, read at the bottom: In this Issue: 'How to Re- cover a Fumble', by Emmett Broderick. I turned to the article, and it started like this: First drop the ball . . The article was just commencing to get interesting when I arrived at Margaret Warn's boarding house, famous for its hash. Presently the door opened and Ted Waiyte came tearing down the steps, with a bed-post, two lamps, and a set of dishes running him an uncomfortably I21l

Page 22 text:

CAMPUS ECHOES ft Could Be Worse had just come out of Marvin Bookman's Pawn Shoppe, on beautiful Market Street, San Francisco, after pawning my valuable Ingersoll watch and chain so that I could get a healthful meal, when whom should I see strolling down the drag but three of the biggest hoboes that ever graced a box-car. They were Stan Hobo Kendall, Bob Prowler Doidge, and Ed Box-Car McGuire. I tried to get out of their way, but they saw me, and in almost one breath all three asked for a quarter in order to keep from starving. We turned into Bill's Restaurantu, generally known as the Greasy Spoon , and were met at the door by a big, burley, hard-looking creature, with an ear-to-ear mustache and a facial expression that would fit a Mexican rebel. It was Bill Hankins, the proprietor, and the hardest-boiled guy on Market Street. The first thing he said was, I-Iow much cash ya got? Hobo,' Kendall told him we had a quarter apiece. Hobo is the best pre- varicator in seventeen states. So we went in and gave our orders to Billie Lathan, the waitress. Billie is the only asset Bill's got in the place, even if she doesn't wash the spoons entirely clean. Walter Girdwoyn is the chef and chief bouncerg and, according to all patrons of the place, it would be a good idea for him to follow up the bouncing end of his job altogether and leave the cheling alone. Pretty soon a riot broke out in the back of the room. Chairs started flying everywhere. We'd better vanish, said Prowler Doidge. It's Bill Radford and Marshall Treadwell, the toughest gangsters in town. I started to laugh, because Bill and Marshall had been far from tough years ago, but suddenly the horrible truth enveloped me. I saw Radford reach to his hip pocket, whip forth that most deadly of weapons, the sawed-off bean- shooter, and, elevating it to his lips, take careful aim and-but wait. Treadwell had also reached to his hip pocket and amid the cries of fainting women- among whom were Grace Legler, Violet Rosson, Dora Ratkovich, and Virginia Reyen-pulled out his vicious sling-shot. With lightning dexterity he grabbed a prune from a nearby table and, facing Radford, fired both barrels. Then I did laugh. Treadwell got his thumb in the way and nearly shot it off, while Radford used an oversized bean and plugged the barrell of his bean-shooter. Rotten, cried someone up above. We all looked up, to see a battery of cameras and lights, and one bird holding a megaphone and yelling through it. It was only a movie. The director looked very much like Bob Dwan. The lead- ing lady, Betty jane Hedden, looked bored. Her maid, Myrtle Layton, was trying to make her comfortable. Oh, they're nothing but amateurs,', came the enlightening voice of i201

Page 24 text:

CAMPUS EcHoEs nnnnnunnInnnunIuunununnnnnuuun v close second. Ted and his wife, Eleanore Druehl, were just throwing a lovers' quarrel, but that didn't stop me from getting out of the neighborhood as soon as possible. Dorothy Nielsen, the maid, told me that one time she saw Eleanore throw a rolling-pin around a corner six blocks away and hit Ted on the ean That night, out at the Greasy Spoon , I was appointed a committee of one to visit the thriving city of Burlingame and see how the folks down there were fixed financially. I was told to invite only those who had some money. I arrived in Burlingame on a southbound freight and strolled down Burlin- game Avenue. I dropped into Norman Malatesta's Bucket of Blood Theatreu to get some sleep, but Marion Moulin kept pounding the old square piano down in front so hard that I couldn't even get my eyes shut. I thought I had had enough, until Dick johnson, the versatile drummer, came out to share in the noise. Then I knew I had had enough. So I went over to the Burlingame Advance-Star office, expecting to see Dorothy Schmidt, the editor, but alas, Dorothy can't seem to get any farther than printer's devil. On the way out I asked Edna Lewis, the tantalizing stenog, for a copy of the evening paper, but there was no issue, as Miss Schmidt had forgotten to put ink on the press. Marion Roberts was playing first violin with the Salvation Army down at the bank corner. As I walked along, watching Marion's solemn face maintain its Frigidaire atmosphere, I bumped into Arthur Anderson. I bought a last week's newspaper from Robert Robertson, a newsboy, think- ing I might get a line on some rich alumni of B. H. S. There was a big Inter- national Wide-open golf tourney out at the Country Club, and the main con- tenders were Covington Pringle and Bob Jones. It seems that at about the seventh hole the end of Bob's club broke off and hit Florence Schaffner, an in- nocent bystander, in the mouth. Then Covington lost his ball and had to quit the match. Gould Henriksen, a caddy, took his place, but he also lost his ball, and they called the match on account of darkness. A big full page ad down in one corner announced the opening of Nan Andersonls Embroidery Shoppe. In the society section was an article about a recent party given by Marjorie Plambeck and Lee Wessel, two society satellites, for their chapter of the Ladies' First Aid. A hectic afternoon was spent by all, drinking tea. jane Taylor gave a report on a recent book entitled Dusky Stevedoref' Ardys Miller gave a short talk on cooking-its uses and abuses. Betty jane Burke concluded the afternoon's pleasure by giving a toe-dance duet. As I put down the paper, I noticed a silly-looking chap picking up cigar stubs from the street. It was Rex Hunter. He told me that when he had gathered enough of them, he was going to start a barber shop. Queer fellow, this Hunter. Wliile I was talking to him, Mervin Samuel came along. 'iWhat hit you? asked Hunter as we noticed his condition. He said he had been making a speech over at the Seat of Learning, commonly called the High School, and he had I22l