Sheridan High School - Bronc Yearbook (Sheridan, WY)

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Why DoesAct LikeThat? “Say Mol, got any dough that’s kinda’ bumin’ yer palm—oh, come across now, be a sport, Mol. I gotta have them iron men—God knows I gotta have ’em!” The shaker was a young bowery tough, a long greenish yellow face, shrewd expression, hair and eves mouse colored; who stood snapping nervously his slim yellow fingers. He came near Molly and putting his arm around her, caressed her, and vague meaningless promises issued from his colorless, calloused lips. “Yuh see kid, I’m goin’ tuh make a big pull nex’ week an’ I’ll shell up then. No Sis, I aint fergot that other neither.” “Oh, I spos’e I’ll haf’ to, Slim; where dye’ think T get the coin t’ buy my glad rags with; y’ know I ain’t had a new rig since Eve—, oh, well, hand me that bag. Y’ can’t have moren’ three.” A crafty smile played over the face of the triumphant Slim and revealed his irregular yellow teeth, elaborately stained by the powerful artist “Nicotine.” To console Mol for the loss of the three “bucks” he slipped as gracefully to the piano as a grey-green lizard and played Mol’s favorite tune, “Memories.” Music was his redeeming quality and the words seemed suggested in the music and in spite of her financial troubles Mollv could not resist singing the refrain. She returned to her six by six bedroom, pulled back the curtain and thoughtfully powdered her nose. And now while she’s engaged in this delightful occupation, let’s all take a peep at her in the cracked looking glass of her dusty littered dressing table. Young? Very; nineteen, red-haired, green eyed, and a rosebud mouth; kissable? Oh, very! And complexion—oh yes,“the skin we love to touch” variety. She gazed abstractedly at the image in the glass but gained consciousness with

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 HILMA BYLUND The one dignified and stately Senior. ■ CHARLES COONEY I ain’t goin’ to the navy unless I can be admiral— but he did. Orchestra.

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THE OCKSHEPERIDA a start as she saw a blotch of powder on a black arched eyebrow. “Yes,” she murmured, “I’m good looking—even Slim admits that; but if he does like me why does he act like that, and if he doesn’t like me why does he act like that?” “Molly, Molly,” sharply, “fer heavens sake what d’ye mean by bangin’ around this way; why it’s half past seven and y’ haven’t et yer break fits’ yet an’ yer a goin’ to be late n’ get more docked from yer pay. Come right out now, yer Pa’s awaitin’ t’ eat with you!” “Cornin’ in a minute Ma.” “Conte right now. I’m familiar with what yer minutes is.” She answered this rebuke by fluffing her hair, throwing some muddy shoes in the direction of the diminutive clothes closet, picking up a soiled shirt waist from a chair and whistling gaily, slipped out of the room into the small hot kitchen. “Lord, Molly, I wish’t y’ wasn’t so noisy always whistlin’ er singin’ er talkin’ at the top of yer voice. Don’t y’ know m’ headaches is always worse’ll usual this month?” “Sorry if I hurt yer head ma, but this dump's alx ut as gay as a tomb except when Slim’s ticklin’ the ivories. Wasn’t you ever young once?” “Yes, I was, n’ I was good lookin’ enough that I didn’t have t’ plaster m’ face with powder neither. Y’ look as white as a sheet!” During this spirited dialogue the red-haired father had sat patiently with eyes fixed adoringly on his Molly; now he ventured, “Well, come Mary, get on yer breakfus’, fer Molly kid n’ I. both gotta be goin’.” The meal was well cooked and served as daintily as red table cloth and thick china permitted. While the meal was in progress, “Christy” Molly’s little terrier came to her chair and whined suggestively. Molly gave the dog some well browned toast only to encounter her mother’s disapproval.