Hudson High School - True Blue Yearbook (Hudson, WI)

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; mu e’26 wri The policeman was questioning the truck driver. “Your name? Mar- garet Muckenhirn. And address? Appear at the Central Police station at ten in the morning? C’mon, be a sport. 1 gotta make a li'l arrest 'today, or the Chief’ll can me.’’ An ambulance clanged up and bore the lifeless remains of the great crook away, while the crowd stood sorrowful, with bowed heads, until the last bit of Aileen was removed with a blotter. Gradually then they separated and returned to their homes. Traffic assumed a normal aspect once more. The incident ap- peared to be forgotten, but ah—was it forgotten? Was there no one in that vast throng to heed the dying words and act on them ? Yes, Sweet Perusor, you have guessed aright. The great editor and his nosey helper were already putting four and four together and getting—none of your business what. PART III I he cafe was crowded. The crowd overflowed the balconies and seethed outside on the sidewalk- A hush of expectancy hung over all. for was not this the night of the Collegiate Dance Marathon, when the skill fnllest steppers in the world would hoof it for the championship and a million of cold rubles? But, ah, was there not, also, a little murmur of anxiety—almost of apprehension—here and there a few spectators gathered into a knot to talk in lowered voices. What caused this worry ? Echo answers ! “Hughes and Turner have not yet appeared. Fortunes have been laid u]x n them by their earnest backers.” Bur on with the dance! Just try- and postjxme it! The tantalizing, toe-teasing, crooning “Blue’ writhed out into the warm air of the cafe. The tenuous strains rose higher and higher. Stewart Mc- Master, the leader, twisted himself into impossible contortions to extract the last iota of rhythm out of bis swaying orchestra. The lights were dimmed to a murky thickness, and a slim pencil of radiance was focussed on a drawn curtain. '} le curtains parted. I wo figures drifted onto the gleaming dance floor, bend- ing, swaying, melting into one, then breaking apart to perform impossibilities of kicking and shuddering marvel. A storm of applause rocked the house. Cries of “Flattum and Fyksen,” “We want Carl’ and Alma” were heard. Gradually the noise died. A second couple glided out. They were Imogene Miller and Daniel Pedersen, two of the most famous terpsichorean artists of the day. Again pandemonium broke loose. A third couple appeared. And a fourth All of them marvelous dancers, but the crowd was still not satisfied. Where were Hughes and Turner? A thin-faced man appeared at a side door and beckoned to a passing wait- ress. “My name’s Dedrick, private detective for the ‘North’ine Courier.’ ” he said. “1 want you to get me a table and save it for Turner and Hughes, They’re coming, see!” He slipjied a coin into her palm. The girl, a quick Tittle thing named Viola Waxon, nodded and turned away. A strange request, but she received many of them. So Turner and Hughes were coming, but would they be in time? The dancers continued to strut their stuff. The current of excitement ran high. At the intermission the three judges, Alta Jacobson, Anna Jensen and Bonita Noreen, were no nearer a decision than before. Mile. Elinor Gillen of Northline cracked her gum with nervousness, much to the delight of the spectat- ors. Governor Helen Becker also showed signs of great excitement. The greatest contest of the ages was on, but the greatest dancers, Hughes and Turner, were not there. What to do?

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: ‘SRUg ’26 ®£.Lig : lately. Why, you have given us the right weather fully twice this week. Don’t you know that you have to keep the public guessing? There, there, don’t cry. Maybe I was a hit harsh, he said, patting Fenton’s hand kindly. “Run along.” “ ) Chumo, you’re the man I wanted to see,” quoth ye editor, as a fair handsome youth wandered in. clouds clinging to his ears and nostrils. “If you must write a ‘Lovelorn Column.’ can't you give the public some good advice? You certainly have had enough exjierience! Now don't try to explain. 1 saw it my- self last night. And that’s not all. I could mention countless cases of poor ad- vice in your column. You’ll have to he more diplomatic, Anderson.” “I’ll try. said the young man, biting his lip in vexation and stamping his foot, “hut I think you’re a horrid, nnan old thing. He burst into tears and ra 11 from the room. The City Editor, Phillip Lein, 'the Sports Editor, Kenneth Coulter, the Ed- itorial riter, Edward Boodv, whose essays on temperance had, by the way, caused much comment, the Fashion Dictator, Frances Hill, and the Advertising Manager, a shrewd writer, Louise Olson by name, all came in and received direc- tions from Mr. Jensen. To each lie gave a kindly smile, a stick of gum, and added the little personal touch (for money) which had helped to make him beloved oy his staff. Next the janitor, Laurie Williamson, came in. opened the vault and took out a little of the precious coal which was entrusted with the happy task of keeping the great pub- lishing company warm and snug all that day. Then with a smile and an “At your service, old chap. the editor put on his moustache, rouged his lips carefully, and smeared them a little with his plug of tobacco. Arm in arm. the great men walked out of the office, their little secret lying close to their hearts. The fate of a Nation depended on them that day and only in their great and unselfish accom- plishment of duty could this frightful catastrophe, which had bowed the hearts of a nation, hope to he solved. PART II A teadv stream of cars rolled up the broad main avenue of the metropolis of X(-rthline. On the busiest corner stood a majestic figure, calm and serene, directing the forces of traffic by a lordly wave of his hand. For eight hours each day the big Irish cop, Nolan Jacobson, was a ruler; after that, he was ruled by his wife, the former grand opera singer, Ann Marson. The officer, just now seemed disturbed about something. “ There's somethin' doin' in this ole town today,” said Nolan to a little boot- bhek who was shivering at his shoulder. “I declare. Hank Jensen, thev's some- thin' up. Thev’s somethin' in the very air that----Hello! What’s that! Tying traffic into marvelousknots and tangles, by a mere order to “Hold Traffic, Jacobson sprinted up to the curb, where a truck was smashed up against a hydrant. A crowd gathered hastily as an inert form was perceived on the pave- ment, hut parted respectfully as the tall form of Editor Jensen shouldered through the throng and knelt by the wounded woman. Jensen gasped in horror. “Great Guns. Officer, do you know who this is? It’s Aileen Fitzgerald, leader of the great Pickpocket Gang.” The policeman bent over and studied the features of the dying woman intently. She stirred slightly; her lips moved. “Hudson--------Wisconsin-------gum factory--------I’m sorry .. . . Peg Lundeen-------insisted------kidnapping-------them.” Her voice faded; her head dropped back; her soul winged its way through the limit.ess blue, up up to the stars. Who knows what reward was given her above—or below?

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= mus ’26 : PART IV Again the lights dimmed and the music started. Couple after couple appeared and the judges were still undecided. Suddenly there was a commotion heard outside, the doors swung open, and in came—yes you’re right again—the dancers, the artists, the poets of motion. Monsieur Roberto Turner and his wife, Marjorie Hughes. The rest you know. The memory of that scene will go down in history hand in hand, with the memory of Gettysburg, the memory of Waterloo, ’‘he mem- ory of Washington. The description of it has been too often done by great writers for me to attempt it. Women fainted, strong men broke down and cried, children cried for Castoria: the entire throng arose as one man when the great pair hooked and ankled about the pine boards. The judges did a horn- pipe in a corner from sheer relief, and the Mayor and the Governor kissed each other ecstatically. It was one gay, glad night, and I don’t mean perhaps. Hughes and Turner won the Marathon, of course, received huge slices of honor and fame, which supported them comfortably for the rest of their days, and the million rubles with which they bought a comfortable home—for Fido. But no doubt the reader, if he has lasted this long, is wondering where, how, why, and when. And being an obliging old soul, ye scribe will do her best to satisfy the gnawing pangs of curiosity which are tearing at the well-known “witals.” “Come with me, then,” as the spider said to the house-fly, (I’m perfectly safe I assure you, old thing) and follow Editor Jensen and Joe See after they left the dying Aileen. Hastening to the garage, the two men jumped into a low- slung, powerful car of foreign make, (le voiture Henriford of Dertoit) and hied them over the hills to Hudson. Guiding his car with the sure hand of a master. Joe See drew up before'a handsome brick edifice at Fourth and St. Croix streets in Hudson. “This is the Hudson Gum Factory, makers of the famous Cracko-Pullo gum,” announced Joe, leaping out of the car and tripping over one of the loose boulders lying in the road. “Darn.” he exclaimed angrily at the little mishap. “But I thought this was the Hudson High School!” Ole looked wistfully at the beloved and vine-covered castle in which he had labored away in his boy- hood years. “()h, it used to be, but the School Board knew they’d make more money in a gum factory, so they changed it,” stated Joe callously. The editor burst into heart-rending sobs. “But enough of this.” said Jensen shrewdly, dashing the tears from his eves, “we must find Hughes and Turner. Duty before weeping, and we must be brave, old man.” Together they advanced on the factory. The doorman, Harold Clark, rose leisurely and admitted ’diem: then he returned to his game of solitaire. His •leek was short one card, yet the patient fellow had played solitaire steadily for eight years in an attempt to win. Ole and Joe walked upstairs and into the man- ager’s office. '1'he manager turned hastily at the sound of their entrance. Ole wagged his finger at her sternly. “Norty, norty, Esther Rusch, aren t you ashamed of yours;If i Keeping two innocent people locked up in your sticky old factory. Trot ’em out immediately, or papa spank.” Esther looked down sullenly. “1 carn’t,” she said stubbornly. “Aileen will git sore on me if 1 give ’em up before that contest. Peg Lundeen asked her to get me to hide ’em.” • But why did Peg Lundeen want to get rid of Turner and Hughes?” asked Joe See, slyly inserting his crafty face cleverly into the conversation.