Arlington High School - Indian Yearbook (Arlington, MA)

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THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION two summers earlier had reserved a bench for himself and there he spent his evenings, quite alone, for lie dis- pensed with the newspaper in summer. That is to say, he looked alone to pas- sersby, hut Jason himself never felt lonesome. Indeed, he was seldom more , than half conscious of his surround- ings. The inhabitants of the square agreed that lie was “queer” hut discussed him no further. Readers (if there are any) are going to say: “This fellow, Jeffer- son, wi ll now do some wonderful thing and conclude this story.” On the contrary — Jason Avas inter- ested merely in dreams — not in their fulfilment. Jason had gazed at space for a long time one evening Avhen he was rather annoyed by a girl who, sauntering sloAvly, absorbed in a book, halted be- fore him in such a manner as to com- I pletely obstruct his view. After she had remained there about rive minutes, i Jason coughed. The girl raised her head, startled, and looked at him for a second. Then she sat down on the other end of the bench and continued reading. Jason looked at the ground and wished he hadn’t coughed. At length the girl closed the book and murmured to no one at all “That Avas some book!” Jason looked at her sharply. She seemed harmless, so he ventured to ask, “What’s the name of it?” She replied, in a very enthusiastic tone, “It’s called ‘White Cliff Trail’; I a man named Darius Taylor wrote it. It’s all about cowboys and Indians and a wonderful dog. There’s a rich man in it who tries to buy cheaply the land on which the hero is trying to start a ranch, because he knows there’s oil on it, but the hero doesn’t, see?” “Oh, yes,” said Jason Avhen her stream of talk halted for a minute. “I think I’ve read that book, too. It’s 11 pretty good, but — you know the scene in the library ? — well, I’d change the place where the hero comes in. I’d have him come in AA r earing the clothes he does on the ranch, big, heavy boots, plaid shirt and those funny-looking Avoolly trousers coAvboys wear. If the scene Avere written that way you’d see the difference between the coAvboy avIio’s trying so hard to make his ranch a success that he can ' t spare the money to get a regular suit of clothes and the rich Millieuse in his evening clothes. Then I’d have him, Millieuse, afraid Ingleton would mark up his floors with the big boots but Millieuse Avouldn’t dare speak to him because he’d be afraid he’d make Ingleton mad and then Ingleton wouldn’t sell him the land he wanted. “And then the place Avliere Ingle- ton ' s dog rinds the letter that tells about the oil on Millieuse ' s lawn and brings it home to Ingleton — I wouldn’t have it a letter — I’d have it a map, a geologist’s map with the places where oil Avas marked on it. Millieuse would probably have only one letter, but he might have half a dozen maps and he’d probably not miss the map as soon as lie would the letter, see?” Jason stopped. He Avondered Avhat had made him talk so much. He had never said so much before in all his life. He had never talked about his dreams ! in fact he Avas rather ashamed of them. What must this girl think of him? Well, it was her oAvn fault. She’d started him. He glanced at her. She was- listening intently, fascinated. So he talked on. When the entire book had been revised — this took about an hour — and he had to stop for lack of material, the girl spoke. “Why,” said she. “You tell stories well, really. Better than this author, I think.” Jason, a little embarrassed by the compliment, fell silent and occupied

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10 THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION they look like this: 0, 1, 2, .° , 4, o, 0, 7, 8. 1). Jason made these figures ah day long and lie finally became so expert that lie could say, “Put 4 and carry 1-G and 5-11-19, and 6-25. Put 5 and carry 2 — with one part of his mind while with the other he jour- neyed from pole to pole in a highly- improved aeroplane of his own inven- tion ; sat on a Sultan’s throne and or- dered Mr. Brockton, the partner with the walrus mustache, to choose between losing his head and raising his, Jason’s pay ; or joined a gang of Western cow- boy desperadoes and held up trains or kidnapped the daughters of cattle kings and held them for ransom, then mar- ried them, after getting the ransom money from their papas, however. Rather silly for a grown-up man, you say? But then grown-up men are apt to do idiotic things. Ask any woman. Each Saturday Jason received a small white envelope which always con- tained exactly twenty dollars. Twelve dollars of this he gave to his landlady, in return for which he was granted oc- cupancy of one nine by six hall-bed- room and the privilege of partaking of the boarding house meals, which had a singular sameness of flavor. After supper the boarders divided into two groups: — those who were go- ing out that evening and those who were not. Jason was of the group who were not. In winter this group adjourned to the parlor, where Mrs. Jenkins, the plump widow, promptly took posses- sion of the large armchair (the only really comfortable seat in the place! which stood under a pink-shaded floor lamp. These articles had been pur- chased during the period of war time prosperity and were now slightly frayed, but then continued to have the most conspicuous place in the room, as they undoubtedly would for some years to come since the remaining fur- niture consisted of two types not cele- brated for beauty — Mission and Victor- ian. Miss Jamie, the thin spinster, a 1 way- arrived exactly fifty seconds after Mrs. Jenkins and her scarf, necklaces, eai rings, bangles and bracelets had set- tled themselves. Miss Jamie then cast an indignant glance at the aforesaid Mrs. Jenkins who pretended not to set; it. After looking helplessly around Miss Jamie sat in the same corner of the Mission sofa upon which she had sat for the past seven years. 8he then produced from a small black bag a small white doily upon which she im- mediately set to work after murmur- ing something about “very poor sewing light over here, really” which Mrs. Jen- kins did not, hear. More ladies entered along with a few men who proceeded to look un- comfortable as the women began to chat and then to decide they needed a cigar and, finally, to slip out of the room, one by one, until Jason was usu- ally left alone, sitting on a genuine horse chair with black walnut carvings. He always sat stiffly upright (it was impossible to sit any other way) with a newspaper held open before him but, although the light in his corner of the room was very dim, there was little danger of his straining his eyes, for he never turned beyond the second page. If you have not already noticed that Jason was a remarkable person, here is proof : — he could sit in a room with eight or nine women all talking at once and think! On summer evenings the people of the square came out and sat on their steps or strolled round the little park in the center and sat on the benches. Jason, by reason of a claim established

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THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION 12 himself iti digging a hole in the ground with his heel. Did you ever try writing — for the magazines or something?’’ she inquired, abruptly. “Why, no,” replied Jason, slowly. This was a brand new idea. He turned it over in his mind. “No-o, I never though of doing that. Never occurred to me. Rather a good idea, though. But — I don’t know — ” Obviously Jason was still flounder- ing. You see, he, along with quite a few other people, liked to be informed beforehand when he was going to meet an idea. He wanted to know what to say to it. “Anyhow I couldn’t very well. Be- cause, even though I do get good ideas, the minute I take a pen in my hand to write a letter or something 1 can’t think of a thing — not a thing!” “That’s easily fixed,” cried the girl enthusiastically — she was really a very enthusiastic person 1 can write for you. I know shorthand work as a “stenog” — and you can talk while I write it down.” ‘But,” objected Jason, rather lamely, the stories mightn’t lie any good. How do we know they would be accepted? You might have all your work and trouble for nothing.” The girl didn’t bother answering his protests. She said, “Listen. Doesn’t this sound important — Miss Barbara O’Donnell, private secretary to the fa- mous author- — why, what is your name, anyway? To think I’ve been sitiing here talking to you all this time and T don’t even know your name!” “Jason Jefferson,” he answered, watching to see if she’d smile or say, how odd!” as people generally did. .Jason Jefferson,” she repeated, only smiling a little bit. “How nice. It jingles sort of.” “I’m not doing this stenographing just to be nice, you know. If you do get famous, 1 want you to promise me a job as private secretary. Promise?” Sure,” laughed lie. But you’ll have to wait quite a while for your pay. How about a half share in whatever 1 get— that would be fair, wouldn ' t it? And say, I don ' t know your name yet, either.” Barbara O’Donnell, 1 told yon once. That offer of yours — do you really mean it? 1 warn you. I’m trying to make all I can out of you?” “Of course I mean it.” “Then let ' s get started as soon as possible. Tomorrow at half-past six here — will that be all right? I’ve got to go now. Good night.” “Good night, private secretary.” That next night and many nights thereafter the two sat on the park bench, Jason talking rather siowly, choosing his phrases carefully, while Barbara’s pencil flew over the pages. When at length the story had been typed — it was quite a long one— it was placed carefully in an envelope and mailed to a well-known publisher. Strange to say, the publisher not only accepted the manuscript but gave Jason a considerable sum of money and a contract for three others of the same length. Jason’s fame was soon established and his name made — well, if not ex- actly a household word — a very famil- iar one to the American public. And Barbara, you ask? Did lie marry her and live happily ever after? No, my readers, he did not, for two reasons;: first, young men have an an- noying habit of not falling in love with every girl that does them a gooo turn and, second, (this is the chief reason) I hate sentimental endings. Martha Barkis, ’ 27 . i I i C L tk to of tie rlP Lit I (OS I ■Jill per] .1 ler ilat J(