Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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THE SPECKLED HAND OR THE MAD DOCTOR RETURNS (in two parts) — a new, short, mystery thriller by Sir A. C. Coil. It was on a typical, foggy London morning that our hero first took an interest in the case in question. He was sit- ting in his favourite brown, leather chair, which was in a Baker St. rooming house, sipping his morning tea. In appearance, he resembled a cuddly muskox. He had a large curved Russian pipe in his mouth, which was almost a permanent part of his face due to continual use, a broad flat nose lying between a pair of chestnut eyes hidden under bushy brows, a corresponding set of pink flexible ears firmly attached to the sides of his head and a flaming log in his fireplace. Sitting in a nearby chair was his associate who was similarly endowed with the addition of several inches of corpuscular material about his waist. My dear Wattson. Yes Ohms. Have you, by chance, seen the morning Gazette? As a matter of fact, no. Anything of interest? Seems there ' s another unearthly fiend in London. Another one? Treats his victims rather poorly. Oh? Paints little round, red dots all over therrL Gads. Really? Quite. Shall we hunt up the scoundrel? Think we ought to? I don ' t see why not. Quite. Ohms and Wattson soon found themselves in the salon of the fiend ' s first victim. The unfortunate chap still bore the mark of the fiend — the circular crimson speckles. Ohms chose his first question cai-efully. Name? Harold Townsender Esq. What can you tell me about the fiend? Well actually, Gov ' nor, I was taking me constitutional down River Rd. when this fellow comes up behind me and near bowls me over, he near does. He turns to excuse himself and that ' s when I sees his hands and the hideous blotches — the little round red ones. Wattson, who had been knitting his brow, began pacing the floor. Queer, what, Ohms? , queries Wattson? Come, come Wattson. It ' s all crystal clear now. The man we ' re after is about forty-five with thinning ruddy hair. He walks with a slight limp (football injury) and wears dark clothing. He was a German tank gunner in 1916, loves his mother, tennis and fruit cake and only got nine shaves with his last Wilkinson sword edge. A little later, back at the Baker St. rooming house, the duo was planning its next move. Wattson inquires of Ohms. Odd? Ohms replies cautiously in order to avoid revealing unconfirmed hypotheses. Rather. After five minutes of silent concentration and pipe puffing. Ohms had managed, among other things, to fill the room with smoke. Wattson I ' ve got my hst of suspects. Good show, good show. The real identity of the fiend is either Walt Disney, your mother or an obscure German doctor called Mitts- potzimeloaded, alias the Mad Doctor. He ' s just returned from Germany. But Walt Disney is sixty-two and my mother doesn ' t use Wilkinsons so that leaves Mittsey. Correct , sounded a deep growling voice. A large sinister-looking figure in a dark, tweed overcoat was standing in the doorway eating a piece of fruitcake. When he limped into the light, he revealed his identity for his skin was heavily covered with ugly marks — the previously described little round red ones. Good evening doctor , said Ohms, I ' ve been ex- pecting you. You see I have known about you for some time now, really. Its just your motive for these actions which has me baffled. Could you be smuggling military secrets out of the country as microfilm, under the spots? Heavens no. Mother wouldn ' t like that. Then each spot is a miniature camera for espionage work and you are dotting the other people to camouflage yourself. Nice try but no. I think I know. , said Wattson. They ' re measles. Measles Wattson? He ' s quite right Ohms. Ah yes. Now I see. Germ Warfare. You ' re to infect the whole count Hardly Ohms, hardly. But . measles? just measles? If it will help, they ' re German measles. Blimey. Not much of an ending for the story. Eh Ohms? Rather. Hope our next job turns out a little better. Not much chance of that. Just some old crank out on the moors that keep complaining about a dog whose barking disturbs him. Sounds like another dull case. Quite. Says his name ' s Baskerville. Michael Cobus 13C DAVE OLIVER 13C 59

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be better to organize myself and leave the pier. While getting up, I said to myself in an audible whisper, Well . A deep subject, calmly and quietly the form answered. I was amazed and confused. Then I started again . Well, well, . , . A deeper subject, was the body ' s reply. This was too much. My mind was enclosed in a state of abeyance. I was ready to pounce on him and squeeze an explanation from that watery face, when I heard, What can you do? This was said very slowly and deliberately with pure disgust at life. With greater anxiety he said, What CAN you do? Then, with a piteous cry he yelled, What can you DO? He turned his head to me (now I was panting heavily) and asked, What can YOU do? More than you, so what? darted out of me. He chuckled very Ughtly and replied, Sew buttons and be a housewife. Then he burst out laughing and with no control over his feelings he interjected this phrase among his coarse exclamations of joy, I did it again. Izzie Horowitz 12B A FISH STORY Sitting on the pier, I began to wonder what an odd and unique character was sharing the solitude of thought with me. He was quite intent on staring at the ripples in the water, without considering the mystery my mind was dealing with. Fishing is a useless sport and any slight distraction can make one forget his stomach; therefore, I sat gazing at the staring eyes. These eyes were the only stationary portions on the face. He controlled the facial muscles of his forehead, cheeks and jaw in such a manner that there appeared wave after wave of flowing wrinkles. The cavity under the nose had a cigarette-holder with no cigarette in it. Glancing downwards, I discovered a homogeneous mixture of all styles and fashions of apparel. Safety-pins fastened cuff-links to the short sleeves of a shirt composed of black and white horizontal bars. On top of this shirt he wore the starched front of a tuxedo but this hanging appendage was black. His fishing pole was an old umbrella with the material in shreds and some spokes dangling loosely. From these spokes he had several lines: some, although tangled, reached the water; others, although hanging freely, did not. His knees protruded from a pair of rags patched up with pants. He had only one shoe, which covered the four small toes. That bare toe was different; the skin of the toe was painted with nail polish but the nail was blank. On the other foot he wore an extra sock, of a fruit-yellow colour, as a sub- stitute for a shoe. Incongruity is a source of curiosity; curiosity is a source of trouble. This chap was not a source of trouble; he was the opposite sex at a bazaar. I concluded that it would 58

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There he is aimlessly roaming about. He has no destination; he is just wandering. As he wanders, he sees nothing but desolation: no sound, no life, no movement of any kind. He staggers about with his back stooped, his head hanging, and his legs so distorted that how he manages to walk seems a mystery. He is the only survivor of a world gone mad. As he roams through the desert of carnage many questions pass through his battered skull, all searching for the answer to why this had happened. How could progress have broken man ' s basic in- stinct of self-preservation? How could the count- less centuries of progress, the lives of millions who had fought for the betterment of man be lost, destroyed, in one split second of weakness? Was this God ' s will? But is not every man in fact an image of God? Had man surpasses his human limit? Where had the human virtues of love of neighbour and respect for God-given life gone? As death brings the end to mortal man, must also his ideas, his beliefs, and his knowledge die with him? Must all things terminate? But wasn ' t it really better this way? Was it not inevitable anyway? Would not death by slow star- vation have been more painful? As these thoughts race through his confused mind, he thinks that this is all a bad nightmare. Yes, this is a nightmare but one from which he will never awake. He now begins to stagger. He falls. He must have lost his belief in God and in life. He no longer has a will to live. All he desires is to lie down and die. And so with him dies God, and good and evil no longer exist. Now, nothing exists! Vince Del Buono llA David Oliver OAKWOOD: MAIN ENTRANCE (AFTER EXAMS) 60