Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 10 text:

AMATEUR RADIO By David Sargent W1DCW de W1FQH rr OM Tnx fer Call. Nightly thousands of Amateur Radio Operators, or as they term themselves, “Hams”, communicate with each other over the air. Although amateur radio is only a hobby, in recent years “Hams” have done more to develop short-wave radio, as we know it today, cnan all the other agencies. Like most other “Hams”, I got my start from watching one of my friends who already was an amateur. The sputter of dots and dashes filled me with awe, especially when I saw my friend tran- scribe them into letters, words, and sentences. How could just a telegraph key, a few tubes, and some funny looking gadgets send out signals that were heard perhaps anywhere in the world? My questions must have sounded like a baby just learning to talk: What’s this? How does that little thing work? Gradually my radio knowledge increased. I learned the Morse Code, used by amateurs, and could actually recognize letters here and there when I heard them. Later with much labor and misplacing of wires and other things (but still having fun) I built a receiving set, and great was my pride when it worked. Experience is said to be the best teacher; soon I learned that “B” batteries and power lines give very unpleasant shocks, also that a soldering iron can get very hot. Acquiring knowledge of radio terms, learning how to read schematic diagrams and build sets, and getting a general education in short-wave radio took a year of my spare time. Like any other prospective “Ham”, I spent hours and hours in increasing my code speed and learning to man- ipulate a telegraph key. This was done at the expense of kind-hearted “Hams” who were willing to give me code practice. Finally I had gained sufficient knowledge to take the exam for an Am- ateur Radio Operator’s license. In the New England district this exam is given in the Customs House in Boston under the supervision of the federal radio inspectors. With trembling limbs I arrived at the Customs House Tower, ready to “do or die”. Luckily, I “did”. The exam consists of a code test in which the applicant must be able to read and write down correctly fifty letters of the Morse code a minute, and about a three-hour written test on the laws and theory of amateur radio. [Continued on page 22]

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A DOLLAR FOR A DIME By Edward Pearlin and Charles Hanson He OM, the doorman at the “Met”, now an C an old friend of ours on account of our J frequent stage-door trips, greeted us af- fably enough, but the handful of cigars we contrib- uted produced downright cordiality. By chance, Guy Lombardo was just finishing his “Sweetest Music This Side of Heaven” and as his Royal Canadians sauntered off past us we had a good look at them arrayed in their brilliant red jackets and Hollywood trousers. The merest request for an interview sufficed and Mr. Lombardo, having changed his clothes, reappeared in a few minutes and conducted us to a room adjoining the stage. Mentally we recorded these reactions: about five feet nine, around twenty-eight, dark hair, dark eyes, glistening teeth, broad shoulders, gen- erally good looking, what clothes! Mr. Lombardo himself started the conversation by asking the name of our school, and requesting a magazine. Our first question brought the in- formation that he was born, brought up and educated in London, Ontario, as were his other brothers in the orchestra (there are three of them, inci- dentally, Carmen being the crooner of the outfit.) He went on to say that his brothers and some friends of theirs started an orchestra in 1921, the same group he has today. “We were such a fine combination and went over so big wherever we played that we just could not break up. That is why I’m here today.” When we asked Guy if he was married, he hesitated, grinned, and, after asking if that question were necessary, replied that he was. He lives in New York because he is in the States most of the time. His hobbies are deep-sea fishing and boating and he told us then he could hardly wait to go to Los Angeles where he had an eight-week en- gagement at the Cocoanut Grove, because there he would be able to indulge to his heart’s content in this he-man’s sport. Our interview was over, but the highlight of our observations of him was yet to come. As the three of us were walking out of the door together toward his hotel, an unfortunate individual commonly called a “bum” accosted Mr. Lombardo and asked him for the price of a cup of coffee. Guy unhesitat- ingly took out his wallet and gave the gentleman out of luck a dollar bill. “Well, maybe the poor fellow did need it.”

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THE MYSTERY OF THE LOST DUKE By Walter Sherriff ONE cold, bleak night in the winter of the year eighteen hundred thirty-three, as Wolmes and I were talking before the warm fire- place in his lodgings on Baker Street, we heard the front door bell tinkle. “Aha!” said Wolmes. “We have a visitor this evening.” “And a bad evening it is, too,” I said. “This is no night for any sane person to—” “Rubbish, rubbish, Hotson! It would do you good to get out in it and take some of that useless fat off your bones,—but let’s see who our guest is.” Just then Mrs. Hudson, Wolmes’s landlady, opened the door and said, “A visitor to see you, suh—a lydy, suh.” “Yes, yes,—show her right up,” he responded in his quick, nervous way; whereupon Mrs. Hudson ushered in a well- dressed woman of some forty years. She was tall, dark, prepossessing, and, judging from her bearing, of noble blood. Wolmes got up and stepping forward, said in his courteous way, “How d’you do. Won’t you step inside-er—” “Lady Simpkins of York,” answered the visitor in a rich, cultured voice. “Are you the famous Shamrock Wolmes?” “I am indeed he whom you mentioned, madam, but I am surprised that you have heard of me. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Hotson. But won’t you sit down by our fire and warm yourself? It’s rather a bad evening without, and you must be rather chilly after your long ride.” “And pray, how did you know I rode?” “Obvious, madam. Very simple. Your boots aren’t very wet.” She uttered a nervous laugh. “Of course,” she said. “But I’ve come to see you about my husband. He’s gone—disappeared!” “There, there,” soothed Wolmes kindly. “Why don’t you sit still for a while and try to calm yoursself. You’re letting your nerves run quite away from you. There! That’s better. Now start at the beginning, and we’ll see what’s to be done.” “Oh, you’re such a help, Mr. Wolmes,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find him for me. It’s just this. I don’t know where he is. He was supposed to go to London by the six o’clock, but he vanished this afternoon. I first be- came aware of this at five. He did not come down for tea and John the butler could not find him. Moreover, the valet hadn’t seen my husband since an hour after lunch.”