Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

Page 25 text:

THE SPECTATOR 23 “I can’t, it’s padlocked,” cried Bruce. “I’ve shoved the keys under the door. Now hurry up! For God’s sake hurry! This old rattle-trap won’t last more than a couple minutes.” It seemed like a lifetime to Bruce until he had found those keys and opened the door. Carrying Frank between them they reached the third floor. The fireman, carrying Frank on his shoulder, descended the ladder, which had caught fire from the flames that wrapped around the lower part of the tower. As soon as they had reached the roof, Bruce stepped on the ladder and started down. He was about fif- teen feet from the roof when the burning ladder gave way and he fell heavily to the slate roof. He managed to catch by a “snowbird” and hold until he was rescued. Then everything grew black and he fainted. When he regained consciousness it was broad daylight and he was lying on a couch in the matron’s room. Frank, pale, faint and almost covered with bandages, but not seri- ously hurt, was beside him. When Bruce opened his eyes Frank held out his hand. “It’s well you have that obstinate streak in you; for if you had given up when 1 did we shouldn’t be here to tell the story,” said he. Frank then told Bruce all the details of the affair. The Freshmen who helped to put up the flag had been scattered into several groups during the fight in the chapel, so that neither Frank nor Bruce had been missed until during the fire. Then several Sophs electrified the crowd by declar- ing them to be locked in the tower. Harry Spangler, the Freshman who had the keys to the new locks, after a mo- ment’s quick thought, explained his plan of rescuing them by the third floor. This was quickly acted upon and the boys were rescued in the nick of time; for, just as Bruce was taken from the roof, the tower fell with the Blue and Gold flying bravely to the last. Frank added that they were to report to the principal as soon as possible. But it was not until afternoon that the matron gave them permission to go. They went reluct- antly; for it probably meant severe punishment, if not ex- pulsion. “I have gained all the desired information from the

Page 24 text:

22 THE SPECTATOR to the window and threw it up, but was quickly driven back by the flames that were already licking up the front of the chapel. A ladder could never be raised thru that. He buried his face in his hands and thought—was this the end of their plan? Caught like rats in a trap, were they to die such a horrible death? Then he pulled himself to- gether and turned toward his friend. Laying his hand on Frank’s arm, he shook him gently. Frank, opening his eyes, stared around vacantly for a moment; then he re- membered. “Are you ready to die?’’ asked Bruce, gravely. “Come off, now, old man, don’t get dramatic. I'm not ready to die until I get a whack at those Sophs,’’ replied Frank, grinning. “But what’s the matter? I smell smoke?’’ “You ’ll smell more before long,” was the grim retort. They discussed the situation for a few minutes in low tones, awed by their approaching doom. If they could only raise a ladder on the roof and get in the third floor windows—but then it wouldn’t do any good, for they couldn’t get past that door,” said Frank. “I don’t suppose they know we’re here. The rest of the fellows would hardly miss us when they ran away,” replied Bruce. He had hardly spoken when the stairway between the chapel and the first floor fell with a crash, tearing the door partly open. Thru this narrow hole the flames raged so fiercely that the two were driven to the second floor. Here the smoke and gas were more oppressive, but the heat was not quite so bad. It was plain that they could not live long in such an atmosphere, for their heads reeled and breathing was difficult. Frank held out his hand silently. Bruce took it and gripped it hard. “Old man,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I guess we’ve about reached the end of the string.” Frank staggered over to the wall and leaned against it. Another minute and his knees gave way and he slid, un- conscious, to the floor. At this Bruce, who had been re- flecting moodily, leaped up with a perfect torrent of oaths. “Hey! You muckle-faced idiot, quit your cursing and open this door,” came a voice from behind the door leading to the third floor.

Page 26 text:

24 THE SPECTATOR Sophomores,” said the principal, after inquiring kindly as to how they were, “and in view of the fortunate termina- tion of the affair I have decided to allow the matter to drop. You realize, however, that I could easily have expelled all concerned; for the trick was one very much frowned upon by the directors. 1 reached this decision only when, after investigation, 1 found none of you to be responsible for the fire. I think that both Freshmen and Sophomores have received a lesson which they will not soon forget.” “Isn't he a brick?” asked Frank, turning to Bruce. “You bet,” was the reply as they both turned, laugh- ing, to the principal. “I am glad you think so,” said he, smiling. “ Good- day.” HERBERT GRAHAM, ’iO. The Picture Exhibit fj£Y the courtesy of the Art League, Johnstown art lov- vlw ers recently enjoyed a rare treat, for under the su- pervision of that club the most extensive collection of oil and water-color paintings ever seen in the city was exhibi- ted at the Cambria Library on February twenty-first and twenty-second. A large number of people viewed the ex- hibit. The whole collection was valued at twenty-five hun- dred dollars, individual pictures running in value from fif- teen to three hundred and fifty dollars. With the exceptions of a few etchings, the pictures are the work of modern artists; as, Helen Balfour, Alice Bar- ber Stephens, William Merritt Post, and Childe Hassam. The paintings which attracted the most attention were “An Old-fashioned Child,” by Alice Barber Stephens, and Jules Guerin’s “An Autumn Evening in Holland.” “October,” by R. B. Gruell, in every way suggested autumn. Of the other paintings, William Merritt Post’s “Approaching Night,” and “ Windy Weather”; Helen Balfour’s “Morn- ing Mist,” Ira Cassidy’s “Sagona, New Mexico,” Mrs. E. M. Scott’s “A Bunch of White Roses,” Henry W. Ranger’s