Berkeley Irving School - Record Yearbook (New York, NY)

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from his grim mouth and splashed into the majestic Hudson. Such was Mack. lNIacNeil and I suddenly grew open-mouthed and silent as jack Coleman, now 78 years of age, hobbled with his Harry Lauder cane and in earnest conversation with Dr. L. D. Ray. From snatches of talk that were borne on the whirl- ing zephyrs, we could gather that Master Cole- man was trying to induce, entice or snare the Doctor into giving him an ad for the Old Ladies' Home Yearbook. Every now and then the coy youngster would drop his cane and jump for an overhead awning. Even as we watched he just touched one and in a frenzy of joy fell delirious on the sidewalk. His companion called a taxicab, I mean a street car, and the young fellow was carried away. Mitchell in- formed me in an awed tone that blaster Cole- man went insane two days after graduation from B.-I. A drunken shout rent the air, and jean Redd, hatless, and perfectly bald, hove into view. Sad to relate, success as a pianist had turned his head, and he often gave vent to pent-up emo- tions. The last we saw of him, he had collected a crowd and was holding a mass meeting to boom Bryan for President. A sad case indeed. l 23 The bus stopped for a minute to remove three hoboes from the road. Even though I recognized Paul McHugh, Al Luke and Otis Rawalt, I felt no pity for the three hardened sinners. VVithout a second thought they had been passed by and my attention was diverted to a wondrous sight. An old but spry gentle- man, mild and benevolent was4Heavens, it is George Cortada. In the garb of a clergyman, he was helping two young ladies across the street. His portly side whiskers and mildly helpful air deceived me for a minute, but I thought, 'fHow natural. It is just as everyone predictedfl The unfeeling omnibus quickly passed the pious George and continued for some time, dur- ing which I saw no more of my youthful charges. We alighted, and there, sitting in the driver's seat, was the great mechanical engineer, Franklyn B. Yates. He was grimy and oily, but one could see that he had changed little, if any. We rushed towards him, but with an habitually cold look, Franklyn B. started his steed and was off. Presently in the distance a crowd which looked like the daily outing of some asylum ap- peared. On closer sight it grew into Whitney

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Prophecy One finger raised commandingly brought the ungainly green bus to a squeaky stop. I, the Attendant Spirit, who had watched and guided the Class of ,22 of the Berkeley-Irving School until that worthy, if somewhat irresponsible combination, had disbanded and drifted like dandelion seeds to all parts of the world, swung aboard and sat musing on top of the empty bus. It had been many, many years since I had seen the noble Berkeley-Irving School and its mem- bers, and now-on the afternoon of February 29th, 1984, Harold Duryea being vice-president of the United States by a large majority of votes -I longed for a glimpse of my dear wards. But stay! Is not that bent and gnarled figure walking leisurely along lNIacNeil Mitchell? And oh! Allah, Mohammed,-anybody be praised! Is he not signalling my bus? How sweet the measured footsteps seem to my unaccus- tomed ears. Quickly I made myself visible, taking the form of a person whom MacNeil would mistake for one of his intimate friends. The rest was easy and soon I was deep in talk with my friend to whom I had hitherto ap- peared invisible. It soon developed that he I 22 had been a traveller and explorer of great note until fallen arches had cut off a great career. Sort of flat tires, as it were. I soon learned, fur- thermore, that MacNeil was taking the bus ride for the express and honorable purpose of view- ing his former schoolmates, who often walked, drove or lounged along the drive, according to their position in life. f'See,ll suddenly exclaimed the animated en- cyclopaedia at my side, 'fthere is an old man, an old, old man. But do you recognize under the farmer's garb and the straw hat with the hay- seeds hanging out, Claude Rice? He used to be a gentleman farmer, now he's a farmer. Yes, he's drifted away from the bright lights to a regular nine o'clock town. Itls too bad, toofl That long speech concluded, my companion whipped out a telescope as a loud whistle sounded across the river. He passed it over to me and before my astonished gaze fell a picture of Robert A. Mack on the bridge of the,Edge- water ferryboat. A lordly picture he made, too, for he had become thin as a rail and his white, stern whiskers were an imposing sight. A stream of golden-colored tobacco juice shot

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