New London High School - Whaler Yearbook (New London, CT)

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18 HULKELEY NEWS be so bold as to inquire your name?” Wondering, I gave it. “I thought so!” he exclaimed excitedly; “why don’t you know me? Don’t you recognize the fellow who used to sit by you in German recitation thirty years ago? Don't you know the fellow that used to get into scrapes with you at Bulkeley? Don’t you know Jimmy Beran ? ’ ’ I was on my feet in an instant. Beran!” I said, half-dazed: ' can it be — ” and the more I looked, the more firmly I was convinced that my visitor was nothing more or less than the flesh and blood—and bone— of my former classmate, Beran. My thoughts of that time are simply indescribable. I was over whelmed, to say the least. The usual formalities of gladsome greetings dispensed with, and all the expected queries asked and answered, we two long-lost friends sat down. Naturally, the subject of our discourse was ‘Old Times.” Our high school course was lived over again. Once more we were boys at Bulkeley. We dwelled upon those immortal topics so dear to all of old Bulkeley’s alumni. But when the conversation began to lag, I said: “Can’t you tell me anything of the old fellows? Do they still exist? And if so, why not? When Beran finally understood the meaning of this upheaval of the English language, he said: “Yes, I can tell you of them. I have seen them all in the last few years. I’ll tell you my story.” He leaned back into a comfortable position. Then he began. “As you walk up the New London State Street of today, a glaring sign on a nearby building will attract your attention. This sign reads— “Foley Building.” Our old friend Foley is the owner. Twenty years ago he started a career as a dentist. Every nice-looking girl in the community who had a sweet tooth went to Foley for treatment. As a result, today Foley owns the handsome building in which he does business. Success has been his, but I’ll tell you a secret— Foley would never have been the successful dentist that he is, if he didn't have a pull! “Another doctor do we find in the person of Sherb—you know, he isn’t a real bona fide physician, but he manufactures Sherb’s Indigestion Cure, prints the story of his life, sticks it on each bottle of his medicine, together with his picture, an’ a’ that, an’ a’ that. His policy is to get invited to a banquet, an easy accomplishment for his affable manners to perform. After eating his fill, the quack-doctor is called upon for remarks. For half an hour or more lie tells funny stories, keeping the other guests in the highest pitch of boisterous laughter. By the time the speaker is thanking the diners for their kind attention, indigestion has acquired a firm grip on all the other guests. Then Sherb pulls from under the table a case of his ‘cure.’ The poor wretches are caught with the goods; escape is impossible. Before the doctor is done with them, each man present has purchased a dozen bottles of Sherb’s Indigestion Cure at two dollars per. “One time business demanded that Sherb’s trousers be tailored. Accordingly, he sent them to the tailoring shop of his former accomplice, Kaufman. When the article of ap-

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bulkeley news 17 Class Prophecy. T was a dark and stormy night. Without the elements raged in all their fury. Safely lodged in my warm Alaskan hut, I thought not of the tempest. Rather, my contemplations were of my old classmates. Thirty years of time had left their marks on the world since the memorable night on which the class of 1914 of Bulkeley School had last met. The occasion of this meeting—or rather, this parting,—was the class banquet, and a jolly good time it was. But what had become of my old chums since then? Had they successfully combated with the ways of the world ? Or had they layed down and given up without a struggle? No, I said, no 1914 Bulkeley man would behave in that way. Suddenly my dreams were arrested by a commotion at the door. The primary thought that entered my mind was “Wolves;” but a human tap-tap allayed my fears in that direction. That a human soul could be a-broad tonight was terrible to contemplate. Cautiously I opened the door. With the influx of snow that came with the opening of the door, a sorry-looking individual stumbled across the threshold. The stranger was sadly in need of help, so I turned my attention to making him comfortable. Inquisitive as I was, I waited for the newcomer to speak. For a long time he was mute. Then he suddenly burst forth. “Suffering cats!” he exclaimed, “if I’d a-known Alaska was like this, I’d a-stayed right down at little old Ocean Beach! ’ ’ Ocean Beach! Who wonders that I started? Ocean Beach! For fifteen years or more, the once familiar name of Ocean Beach had never entered my ear. And here it came to me from the whistling gale, as it were. Seizing the storm-bound wayfarer by the shoulder I fairly yelled: “What do you mean, Ocean Beach? Ocean Beach, New London, Connecticut, U. S. A. ? Ocean Beach, Long Island Sound? Answer me!” The stranger was exasperatingly slow about answering. F i n a 1 ly he said: “Yes sir; Ocean Beach, New London, Conn. That’s where I’m from. ’ ’ My joy knew no bounds. For years I had never set eyes on a New London man; and here freakish Fate had sent me one of the things I most desired. Now I could get all the information I wished. Now I could find out how things were going in my old home-town. Now I could learn something concerning my old classmates and other friends. When I raised my eves to look at him, my guest was staring intently at me. “Say,” he said, “might I

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bulkeley news 19 Parel was returned to the owner, the latter missed several buttons, important for their upkeep work. Upon Sherb’s refusal to pay for the tailoring work, Kaufman resorted to legal action. He hired Rosenthal to defend his side of the case, but Rosenthal had a broken arm, incurred in an argument with a blind man, and how can any Yiddisher make an effective speech with only one arm with which to talk? As a last resort, Kaufman imported from Mystic at great expense, the learned barrister, N. Ryley. At the trial Ryley made a speech that has gone down in history. He carried everything before him. So thrilling was it that Judge Murphy and ten jurymen actually stayed awake during the entire proceedings. As I remember, the best part of the wonderful oration goes like this: It is in vain, gentlemen, to convict my client in the name of Justice. The plaintiff may cry for restitution for the death of his pet grasshopper, but is he justified in getting it? Proof has been put before you showing that the act of the defendant was one of necessity to the community. Is the safety of the people considered so low that a blood-thirsty grasshopper — hopelessly crazy, totally insane, hopping mad—should be allowed to run rampant through a neighboring field where live-stock is grazing? Was not the defendant justified in protecting his cattle from the ravages of this beast? Be reasonable, for the love of Mike! I know not how you may decide this matter, but if you must use the name of Justice, I demand the freedom of my client. ’ “Of course, Ryley didn’t know what he was raving about, and with just as much certainty I say that the subject of his speech had no bearing on the case; and you might say that it contains a suspicious flavor of Patrick Henry—but what of that? Modern justice is not influenced by such trifles. And— “But speaking of trifles, there was Kaplan. Poor chap! You probably remember that his greatest ambition was to be a man. Apparently he thought that one of the requisites of being a man was to get a girl. He got a girl, all right—a Chesterfield chicken. Kaplan — poor luckless child that he always was—was soon mixed up in a breach of promise suit. All the evidence was against him. The final verdict was a sad blow to his pride. He told me that he had never felt so cut up about anything since the day he tried to shave from his chin a certain indefinite something you couldn’t lay your finger on. But this is a cruel world! “Now perhaps you would like to know what became of St. Germain. As a scientific farmer he is regarded as a second Luther Burbank. At the present time he is trying to make more prominent the animal instinct of such plants as the cra ipple, the catwip, the horseradish, the gooseberry etc. He actually has perfected a dogwood tree that really barks. The last reports I had of him were to the effect that he was then working on an entirely original idea. He thinks that if he were able to cross a catnip with a dogberry, the result would be a bush that would bear a coat of fur (inherited from the catnip); and this heavy fur coat would cause the plant