Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 9 text:

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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“Father, there's a matter to which I'd like to call your attention. With one exception our operating expenses are running pretty close to the line. There's one ship, however, the Polar Star, which I think is superfluous. By an extension of the itinerary of the Princess we could include the mail deliveries and stop-overs of the Polar Star. We had planned on replacing the Polar Star; now we shan’t have to. “What about the skipper and crew? “There are plenty of vacant berths-they'11 sign up soon enough. “Well, I don’t quite know, but I'll leave it in your hands. “Peter Ames turned and smilingly regarded his son. “I've done pretty well by leaving things to you for the last couple of years, so I guess it's a good policy to continue. Captain Harvey Jenkins and his first mate faced each other over a long narrow table, but this time the face of Edwards bore an air of conviction and the eyes of the skipper held nothing but pain and delusion. A glance at the letter clenched in his fist would provide ample explanation, its curt announcement to Jenkins of his removal as skipper of the Polar Star being responsible for the old man's anguish. “It's not so much being told I'm through, although that’s a blow, but coming like this; that's what I mind. Not a word of thanks to speak of after twenty-three years. I guess this takes the wind out of my sails- knocks my theory in the head. Loyalty, gratitude! You're right; they’re forgotten. The first bitter outburst did not last long, however, and when his anger had passed, leaving his mind clear and rational, Jenkins wrote a long letter to Oliver Ames. A few days later, Ames decided to drop in at his office and his glance took in the letter lying opened on Hastings’s desk. Observing his name on the envelope, he reachd out and mechanically noted the con- tents. He read idly at first, then his face assumed an air of puzzled con- centration and he turned toward his foster son's office. On the point of en- tering, he paused, and distinctly heard Hastings's voice ascending the low drone of conversation which came from the other room. His tone was un- certain, protesting, but at a word from one of the others he was quiet. “I tell you, Hastings, there’s not a thing to be afraid of. You simply en- ter a deliberately high bid, give us our chance to grab the contract, and pocket your bonus. Your outfit and mine are the only two which can touch the job. It’s not a big paying proposition, but for us it will serve as an introduction. It's a sure fire thing, and your chance to make $10,000 dollars on the side. Well, what do you say? A tense silence, and then Hastings' “All right—I'll do it. With hurried, unsteady steps the listener made his way home, and there he carefully re-read the letter he had found in the office. For nearly an (Continued on page 12)

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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]