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

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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.

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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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: WRUg ’26 ®LU£ : Esther chewed her nails nervously. “I carn’t tell, I darsn't.” Then, as she saw a menacing look on the two faces before her. she added, “Peg Lundeen has always been in love with Bob, and when he married Marge, she swore she’d get even. We girls always get our revenge,” drawing herself up proudly. “Well drag ’em out quick or I’ll—” said he. “Where are they, tell me.' “Try and find them,” said Esther, sticking her tongue out at them. A sound as when some old bovine, contentedly chewing in some stagnant, murky pool and seeing a luscious mouthful of hay at some distance away, should draw her foot out of the slime with a hollow reverberation, was heard Looking over his shoulder, Editor Jensen detected a ripple on the surface of a huge vat of gum which was not yet made into sticks. He strode to the tub, rolled up his sleeves with a majestic gesture, plunged his dimpled arms into the gooey mass and pulled our—first, Marge Hughes, who kissed her liberator soundly, next, Hel- en Solheim, Marge’s dainty French maid, and lastly, the great dancer himself. Roberto Turner- So that is how Turner and Hughes were found. After a memorable ride back to Northline, a literal race with time, with high stakes, they arrived in time, albeit a bit sticky, as we know. And even now, boys and girls, the old-timers of Northline tell of how Editor lensen saved the dav. —E. G. SENIOR CLASS WILL We, the Class of 1926, of Hudson High School. County of St. Croix, State of Wisconsin. United Star.es of America, Trail Twelve, being insane and out of our heads, do hereby declare this to be our last will and testament. We be- queath the following: To the Faculty: To Mr. Rock. An automatic excuse writer. To Mrs. King: A stableful of ponies (French and Latin breed). To Miss Linder: The position of private secretary in the Hudson High School Gum Factory. To Mr- Cooke: The Manager of the Hudson High School Gum Factory. To Miss I.ee: A new style of penmanship and a bottle of black ink. To Miss Nvberg: A private compartment in the Stillwater school. To Miss Powers: A conscience. To Miss Kreitzburg: A hair cut. To Mr. Bargen: A brighter Chemistry Class in 1927. To Mr. Schulke: A team (?????) To Miss Blegan: Condolences for the loss of some marvelous Basketball players—by graduation ? To Miss Wege!: Some more frogs. To Miss Hoover. A grocery Store. lo Miss Langworthy: Many thanks for services rendered, lo Nibs Larson: A Kiddy Kar, so she won’t have to waste so much energv chasing down absence slips. To Miss Sutherland: Appreciation for the “eats” left in the ice-box. Mayonnaise dressing in ] articular) To the Juniors: Scorn ! ! ! ! ! To the Sophomores: Sympathy. To the Frosh: