Canton High School - Cantonian Yearbook (Canton, IL)

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THE CANTONIAN C. H. S I bet Hartwell's dad oHered to build a new dorm if they gave the kid a show. Shut up, you fellows, and wait, said another. Give the kid a chance. There's plenty of time for crabbing after we've lost? At one o'clock of the big day ten lithe limbed young fellows faced the starter. Hartwell felt a new feeling, that of responsibility, for was not Wells depending upon him to help up- hold her athletic honor. His brain was a confused jumble of advice given him by the coach, but it cleared on the crack of the pistol. His own place was simple. He resolved to stick to the heels of Thornton, the Stanton champion, like a leech. At the end of the first two miles the runners were strung out over a hundred or more yards, but all were fresh and running easily. Then came the range of hills where most slack- ened their pace, but not so with Thornton. He was becoming a bit impatient at the youngster who stuck so close to him, and. confident of his own wind, he thought that here would be a good chance to kill off one of the runners. He quickened his pace up the stony slope, but Hartwell did likewise and the two topped the summit well ahead of the others. The VVells Freshman realized well enough what his opponent's tactics were and he thought it possible he might succeed. Hartwell gritted his teeth and resolved that he would drop in his tracks before falling behind. Thornton kept up the same pace down that hill and up the next. He hardly considered that the youngster who followed him so closely was worth a secohd thought. VVe'll both be out before the finish, thought Hartwell, beginning to be conscious of a, slight yet increasing pain in his side, as he glanced at the seemingly tireless figure ahead of him. Thorton took the leap across Muddy Run without hesitation with Hartwell still in his tracks and they went splashing across the marsh, the filthy water, making blotches on their white running suits. The end of the marsh marked the half way mark and Hartwell wondered how he could ever stand the remaining six miles. Then hope leaped up again, for Thornton stumbled, which showed that he was also tiring. In this new confidence Hartwell forgot the dull pain in his overworked lungs. Then Thornton began to wonder. Who was this green runner who so stubbornly refused to be left behind. Then he began to regret the half-hearted way in which he had trained for this race. Confidence, born of three successive victories, had placed him where he believed defeat was impossible. His feet were heavy, and then he stumbled again. That four miles of wood road seemed an eternity to the two boys in whom the clean cut stride of the trained runner could no longer be seen, for both stumbled frequently, and their breath came in gasps from overworked lungs. At the end of the wood road with ten miles behind him, Hartwell made his first attempt to pass Thornton, but the latter glared at him with bloodshot eyes and quickened his pace, and so they went on as before. A few minutes later an outpost stationed to give warning of the runner's approach, dashed around a bend in the course, waving his hat. Coming! he yelled. . Good! shouted someone. 'fThat means a record for the coursef' Who's coming? Two fellows coming, one of them Thornton. Don't know the other. Must have set an awful pace, for they're running like a couple of cripplesf' Then as the boys gathered closely around the tape the two leaders appeared around the bend. Staggering like drunken men they gamely tried to sprint down the home stretch, but that sprint was a dismal failure. Hundreds of pairs of lungs were yelling at the two men, imploring them to reach the white tape first. If it isn't the Frosh that showed the yellow, cried one lad, but the last word was driven back down his throat by a vicious stroke of Red's hand. Hartwell was hardly conscious of the uproar, but he realized in a dim sort of way that the time for the last effort was at hand. He had enough nerve left to steer his footsteps in a straight course to the finish and he dropped over the tape a few feet ahead of Thornton. The coach caught the almost unconscious boy in his arms and carried him into the gym, thru a cheering crowd. The final score was 10 to 11 in Wells' favor. There were many sober faces among the VVells boys when they realized who was respon- sible for the victory and how they had treated him, and they stood about the gym door ready to welcome him when he came out. Hartwell, much refreshed by a shower bath, heard the crowd yelling for him and he dreaded to face them. He dressed and tried to slip out the back way, but his teammate caught him and thrust him out the door to face the awaiting crowd. The crowd formed into a squad, hoisted the protesting Freshman on their shoulders and began a triumphant march across the campus toward Blackwell Hall. Hartwell knew that he had wiped forever the yellow stain from the minds of his school- mates. CARI. XVILLIAMS. '18 lll Ill llill 144

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C. H.S. THE CANTONIAN I I I I I I o'cl0ck of the next evening he broke excitedly into the room occupied by Sam Hawkins, known as Red, and leader of the crowd which had hazed Hartwell. Several other boys were also present, draped about on the furniture in various picturesque attitudes. VVhat do you suppose has happened ? he burst out. You know that Freshman we hazed in Blackwell Hall? VVell, he went to Dr, Andrews and squealedf' He what? gasped the unbelieving chorus. He what? He squealedf' repeated Skinny. I was waiting in the outer office to see Doc about my history flank last spring and the door was wide open, so I couldxft help hearing. You oughter been there. Gee, but he's a regular fire cracker. Said that everyone of the bunch that was in his room ought to be expelled, that the school was nothing more than a mob of roughnecks and a whole lot more. Each boy gasped in astonishment. Such a state of affairs had never before existed at VVells. He is ready to identify every fellow in the bunch, went on Skinny, and then to Red: He's described us from A to Z. The insignificant little son-of-a-gun, mused Red. He must have a streak of yellow that goes clear thru. That's just it, agreed Skinny. He's saffron to the core and out beyond. It was wonderful how fast the news spread. From room to room, from dormitory to dormitory it fiew, leaving a trail of disgusted and indignant boys behind. ,Could Hartwell have heard the many uncomplimentary remarks made about him it would have opened his eyes. Next morning he saw one of his classmates whom he had made up his mind to like. His words of greeting were interrupted by: Is it true. Hartwell, that you squealed on those Sophs who hazed you night before last? I don't like the way you express it, said Hartwell, but I certainly went to Dr. Andrews about the matter. I considered it my duty to- He paused, surprised at the scorn and contempt in his classmate's face. Then the latter turned of without another word, leaving him angry, and considerably mystified. Similar meetings happened thruout the day and the boy had finally began to doubt the wisdom, from the standpoint of policy, of what he had done. At first he was hurt and scornful, but as the days dragged into weeks, and weeks into months, he began to feel different toward his schoolmates. It changed him so nmeh that he felt fully as much contempt at what he had donq in ignorance, as did any of those who judged him. He could see now, as he broadened, how serious his offense had been and he knew that he had no one to blame but himself. This change was the only thing that kept James Hartwell in school. Quitter was a new word added to his vocabuIa1'y and he had resolved to stick to his guns to the last, and to make the fellows at VVells respect him. Being alone most of the time Hartwell had plenty of leisure after his studying was fin- ished. He formed the habit of taking long walks into the country and it was these tramlps that gave him his big idea. He sought out the athletic coach and told him the whole story. I know I can put it over if you help me, concluded the lad. But I don't want anyoiie to know about it until I've made good. VVhy, of course, I'll help you, said the coach, gripping Hartwell's hand. Thus began Hartwell's training for the cross-country team. In one of those tramps he had jogged around the twelve mile course, timing himself just for the fun of it, and later looked up the school's record. Of course it was far below the time of the school record, but the boy learned something he had not known before, that in him was the making of a long distance runner. The VVells cross-country team had been defeated three years in succession by the Stanton School, her nearest rival. The coach had been searching for material to bolster up his weak cross-country team with little success, and when he saw Hartwell in action, his eyes lighted up, and he muttered joyfully, VVhy, that boy is a regular find. The cross-country race took place between VVells and Stanton as soon as the ground had dried sufficiently in the spring. The course was spoken of as a howling terror. It swung around in a big circle over a range of steep hills where the ground was studded with boulders of all kinds and sizes, traversed an irregular section of recently cleared wood-lot, included a twelve-foot leap across a muddy stream and a quarter of a mile of marsh beyond it, followed a little used wood road for four miles and finished with a level two-mile stretch of macadam, which brought the runners to the tape in front of the gym. By agreement between the schools each team was to consist of five men and only the first three to finish on each side counted scoring points according to places secured. The lowest score won. Surprise and disgust was universal when James Hartwell's name appeared on the bulletin board as a member of the cross-country team. The Old Man's losing his punch, said one loyal spirit. The idea of sending a runner like Toodles Thompson to the bench. III III 143 Illll

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C. I-I. S. THE CANTONIAN I I I I I I A BROTHER ENEMY UY FOSHAE was not a coward, at least he was not the sort of coward that we so often meet with in every day life. He feared no man or animal in his quiet life among the Mausse Hills of France, solitary except for Char, his dog and partner in business. Foshae lived comfortably by hunting, assisted by Char to whom he talked and whom he treated as a younger brother. The sun was just setting as Foshae rose from his stool by the fireplace, made a pretense at combing his disheveled black hair, and, reaching for his hat, left the crude little one-room hut. As he stepped out he was greeted as usual by Char who clumsily threw his huge front paws upon his master's chest and proceeded to kiss him affectionately, while his bushy tail beat steady time upon a large box which was near at hand. In return, Char expected a number off kind words and a few pats upon his shaggy head. This sort of greeting was only a curstom which Foshae and Char had kept during the six years of their partnership, and Char did not intend to violate the custom even though his master had been acting dreadfully sad and queer for two whole days. It was the master who had evidently forgotten the custom, for instead of the usual tenderness with which he greeted his partner, he knocked him aside and shouted harshly: Get away, Char! Go lie down! Char sulkily resumed his place by the door and lay looking questioningly at his master. Foshae was too deep in thought to notice the odended and bewildered creature, and hanging his head he walked slowly over the hill. Several times Char started by habit to follow his master, then remembering the harsh words he turned back each time more bewildered. It was dark when Foshae reached a quiet little village whose lighted houses might have looked cheerful to him had he been in a mood even to look at them. At a small, cheerless house and at the request of a young lady who greeted him at the door, he entered. Guy, exclaimed the girl, when they had seated themselves. what is the matter? You look ten years older to-nightf' There was no answer. Both sat silent for a few seconds, then she cried impatiently: VVell! VVhy did you come to-night if you won't talk? At this she started from the room, but came back when Foshae began: I--I want to talk-that's why I cameg for a little consolation, I guess. Consolation ?', Yes, haven't you heard? I've heard lots of things, of course. VVhat do you mean? Had you not heard about the war? IVar is declared. Of course I've heard about it. ls that why you look so down-hearted? I-I'm afraid it is, Hilma, that is- You! Are you a coward? Do you hesitate to fight for your country? Afraid rr And she tossed her head challengingly. Yes, Hilma, I hesitate be-because- No reason will excuse you from cowardice in warfare. You are a traitor and I hate you ! W But listen, Hilma, I'm not a cowardf, Not a coward ! She smiled sneeringly at him. And I suppose you still expect me to marry you, a coward, a traitor. VVon't you let me explain ? he pleaded. Explain! How can you explain.?7, 'gBut, Hilma- Oh! Go away, she sobbed bitterly, your presence annoys me. Foshae looked up. Hilma was gone but he could hear her sobbing in the other room. He picked up his hat and left the housq feeling like a sneak thief. All the way home he walked very slowly, trying to think, but somehow he could not collect his thoughts. It seemed only a terrible nightmare. A week later Guy Foshae was dressed in the uniform of a French soldier. He stood just outside of the door of his little hut and a big tear fell on his cheek as he bade Char good-bye. You must not go, he said kindly to the dog. I'1l be back some day-perhaps. Really, Char, I'm not the coward Miss Hilma believes me to be. You wouldn't want to kill your own brothers either, would you, old chap? Char wagged his tail violently. Of course you wouldn't, agreed Foshae, after interpreting the wagging of his tail as a negative answer. Foshae patted his partner a number of times, then arose and without looking back started over the hill as he had done the week before. He walked slowly but firmly and in about a half hour he reached the village whence a number of other young men in French uniforms joined him and went to the depot from which they were bound for service for their country. Here Foshae stole a moment or two to write Hilma a few lines. My dear, he began, you call me a coward, though were you to know the truth you would probably change your mind. But since I am now dressed in a French uniform, bound as 9 III III 145 Illll