Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.”

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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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“That would be about two o'clock?” “Yes. Then I became thoroughly alarmed and had the servants search for him, but they couldn't find him, so I came here. Oh, Mr. Wolmes, I don't know what may have happened to him!” “Yes, yes, I see,” mused Wolmes. “And you want me to find His Lord- ship?'' “By all means. I'll do anything—pay you any sum you mention, if only you will find him.” “Very well, we'll talk of payment later. But now to work. Did you dis- cover anything missing while you were hunting for your husband?” “Nothing but a complete suit of clothes that he was going to wear, but I presume he had it on at the time of his disappearance.” “H-m-m-m. Very interesting. Most interesting. I'd like to take a look at your surroundings, if I may. Let's see. It's now six o'clock. Could you trans- port us to your manor in half an hour's time?” “Certainly, my chaise is waiting for me.” “Then let's start at once. Come along, Hotson.” “I sye there, Wolmes,” I cried. “You're not thinking of going out in this blustry weather, are you? The wind howls so, it freezes my very bones to hear it.” “Nonsense, nonsense, Hotson. Freeze or no, it'll put a little color in your cheeks. Come along.” All the way to the manor Wolmes was silent, and, by common consent, Lady Simpkins and I kept to our own thoughts, for we knew Wolmes was pondering deeply over the situation. But when we reached our destination, he jumped out briskly and asked to be shown to the butler's quarters. The butler was a capital fellow of the London type, who at Wolmes's request, conducted us to the Duke's rooms up on the top landing. But Wolmes didn't didn’t seem deeply interested in his surroundings and kept walking back and forth, chin in hand, muttering to himself. “Maybe His Lordship took an earlier train,” I ventured. “Couldn't have,” Wolmes replied testily. “He left his baggage behind.” Then, turning to the butler, “Look here, my good fellow, are you sure you searched the whole place?” “Well, now, sir, we've searched 'is rooms, the library, study—” “Yes, yes, but did you search all the rooms?” “Well, now ,sir—that is—all except the wine cellar,—but 'e wouldn't be there, sir.” “No, I am inclined to agree with you there, but we might as well make sure. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything that might bear light on the case?” [Continued on page 16]