Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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to lose hope when suddenly in front of us the huslies parted and tlie dim outline ot a large dog was seen. With a low growl he made for my throat. Fortunately we had the net ready and managed to capture him without injury to ourselves hut we could not go near him. With blazing eyes and snapping jaws he kept us at our distance. Suddenly, Slater said, in astonishment that it looked like Richards ' dog but that the animal formerly had always been gentle. I was not very surprised to hear this for it had been part of my plan. But before I could say so, I spied a small clearing ahead and telling the others to follow, I went forward. There in the clearing were the bodies of two men, one of whom Slater identified as Richards and the other, as we could see by his uniform was the escaped convict. Richards had been evidently strangled by the convict but the latter ' s throat was mangled like those of the policemen. Gradually we pieced the story together. The convict had probably killed Richards to get his clothes and the dog, seeing what had happened too late to prevent it had slain him in revenge. Mad with grief for his master, he had mourned him with that awful howl, so like that of his ancestor the wolf. Wolf-like too in his savage despair, he had killed the four policemen, probably thinking that since his master had been killed by a man all mankind was his enemy. When I heard of Richards ' disappearance with his dog, I thought that perhaps harm had come to the man and that the dog was trying to protect him. I did not guess that the convict had murdered him, nor did I guess how savage the dog had become. Even- tually we had to shoot him, for each night he awakened the countryside with his mourn- ful howl, which, although people now knew what it was never failed to move them by its unearthly sadness. Peggy Tyndale, Form Upper V2. THE DRAEGERMAN HEROES OF MOOSE RIVER MINE Three men are trapped by shifting rock In the old Moose River mine. One hundred and forty feet below The dreary surface line. The cry for help has filtered through For all who ' ll volunteer To clear the shaft, while hope remains. Stout hearts that know no fear. From Nova Scotia ' s deep coal mines That tunnel ' neath the sea. Game eight heroic Draegermen In answer to the plea. For len long days and endless nights They grimly fouglit their way ' (iainsl rock, ' gainsl lime, ' gainst death; its hand So ihn aUuiing to slay. [24]

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THE GHOSTLY HOWL ARKNESS had come with ahiiost tropical suddenness. Usually I had plenty of time to finish my evening walk with light enough to find my way but this night, a mile from home, I could hardly see my path and was very near to losing myself. The air was heavy and oppressive, the trees were quite still, somehow nature seemed to be waiting or listening for something. I felt vaguely uncomfortable and out of place. If only the moon would come out, I thought, or a sound break the strange stillness. Then, almost as soon as it was expressed this latter wish was granted; a sound did break the stillness, a sound that made a shiver run up my spine and my heart leap into a totally un- accustomed, region — a weird unearthly noise, more resembling the howl of a wolf than anything else I could think of. It began on a low note of indescribable sadness gradually growing into a crescendo of mournful agony. Then, after ceasing for a moment, it changed to a cry of anger, almost it seemed like a challenge, so real that I could feel the hate and desire in every note. Finally I could bear it no longer, wild, unreasoning terror seized me, I rushed blindly ahead and at length found myself in my own grounds week and trembling with fear. Two days after this occurrence our little town was in an uproar. Other people besides myself had heard that ghostly howl and theories supposing it to be made by a prehistoric monster or a supernatural fiend were rife. So the next night four police- men had been sent into the wood, where the sound had come from. They failed to return to report the results of their investigation and the next morning, when search was made, they were all found dead in different parts of the wood (they had been told to separate for the search). In each case their necks had been torn open, obviously by some animal for teethmarks were plainly visible. There were no foot-prints as there had been a long drought and the afternoon ' s search had so far brought no reward. There was another cause for excitement. On the same day that I had my terrifying experience, a convict had escaped from the nearby prison and in spite of the extensive search which the authorities had instituted, there had been no sign of him. So between these two unusual happenings it was no wonder we were upset. This same afternoon I received a visitor, a Mr. Slater whom I had known at college. He had come to me about a matter that had been worrying him. A friend of his, Richards by name, had promised to wire him from this town the day before about an important business deal and had not done so. Inquiries at the inn had revealed that Richards had come there two days before, alone except for his Alsatian dog but had disappeared the same night leaving his luggage behind. As his friend told this story a fantastical idea came into my head, Was Richards ' dog fond of him? I asked. Absolutely devoted, I never saw anything like it , was the reply. That night the chief of police. Slater and I armed with a huge net and a couple of pistols, set out to try our luck against the strange monster in the woods. The other two, I knew, felt that it was a wildgoose chase but that idea of mine had matured and led me to bring them there. We made our way deeper and deeper into the wood. I was beginning [23]

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And then when hope had almost fled The imprisoned would survive, They finally broke through to find That two were still alive. A land that breeds such men as these, Needs nought of bloody feud To find its heroes, who deserve The nation ' s gratitude. Jane Harrison, Form IVa. A STUDY IN CANNIBALISM Josephine, Ohio, 10 p.m. A dark rainy night — a green light at the crossroads and a heavy car approaching. Grireen changes to red — the brakes slam down — Buster, the car, with a graceful swerve, slides across the road, turning, turning, until a sturdy telephone pole present itself, none too gently. Follows a little conversation. Trying to beat the light! says mother from the back seat. Nothing of the kind, retorts father. This car needs four-wheeled brakes, that ' s all. Two-wheeled brakes aren ' t enough for such a heavy car. Pity he isn ' t a year later, says big sister. They came on all the cars then. That gives me an idea, says father. I wonder — Chicago, Illinois, 5 a.m. Ten days later. Do look at that dilapidated old Lincoln in front of the hotel, says little sister. He looks like Buster ' s twin brother. No, a year younger, says father. And so it has four-wheeled brakes. But it won ' t have them long, for we are going to drive it to Cincinnati and have them put on Buster next week. Behind the newcomer stands Buster. The two cars are really the same size, but Buster in shiny black seems larger than his companion, in shabby grey. Buster seems to tower above him and to gloat over his intended victim. It looks decrepit, says mother. Will it run? What can you expect for $90? answers father, evading the question. It is soon answered, however. The starter wails dismally a few minutes, then silence. Finally a condescending push from Buster sets the engine beating like a steel mill and the dis- sipated looking thing moves off. [25]