Boston University College of Practical Arts and Letters - Sivad Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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g a fo cones ie | | es] rey, Su Ball Costume DON’T know what I’m going to do with you, Dick.” Exasper- ated, Katherine Merrill faced her brother. ‘All that’s the matter with you is an inferiority complex. You can dance as well as any boy I know.” Dick reached over and shut off the record that was cheer- fully wailing Broken Hearted. Abrupt silence. Then, from Dick, “Too bad, isn’t it?” “It certainly is! Think of all the fun you’re missing. You won’t go near a party just because you don’t want to dance, and you don’t want to dance because you think you can’t. I’m telling you you can. Seventeen years old and never been to a real party! It’s a crime.” Dick absently cranked the phonograph as he listened. ‘I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Then be a sport and make me a promise.” “Don’t believe in promises.” Kitty persisted. ‘Promise me that you’ll accept the next party invita- tion that you receive. ‘‘Wait!’”’ as she saw signs of rising revolt. “If you don’t have a good time, you needn’t ever go to another party as long as you live.” “But I don’t want. ..aw.. . well, if you want to take the responsi- bility, I’ll do it,” sputtered Dick. A whistle shrilled outside the window. “There’s Joe now! I gotta go.” And he was out of the house before Kitty could reply. At half past nine the following Saturday morning, Dick was still snor- ing peacefully under the bed clothes, one ear unconsciously cocked toward the alarm clock. The clock did not ring according to expectations, but the telephone did, and it served the same purpose: z-z-z-zing! as persistently as Big Ben himself. “Aw-w, shut up!’ mumbled Dick sleepily, and opened one eye. Z-2z-z-zing ! “Keep still, I told ya! Aw-w!” The other eye opened. Z-2-Z-zing !!! “Good night!” Dick sat up on the edge of the bed and stared in the direction of the telephone. ‘It’s you, is it? I might have known. Who the deuce is calling me at this time 0’ day? Can’t let a fellow sleep in peace . . Hello?” “Hello, Dick!” Dick blinked and said nothing. The nerve of anyone to sound as crisp and wide awake as that at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. “This is Dick, isn’t it?” The voice was persistent. SQh--ulh-—vesmanv ois. this 1 “Betty Douglas speaking. I’ve a favor to ask of you, Dick. Will you do it for me?” [ 2238 ]

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And now we turn to the consideration of common physical resem- blances “among us cats”. Oftentimes on my way home, I amuse myself by attempting to catalogue my fellow travelers on the train—to catalogue them according to cat standards. You have no idea how diverting a game this is. Do you see, across the aisle, that tall, lean, saturnine fellow with a furtive expression in his eyes—a man neither young nor old? Do you know what he is? A common species of alley cat. Do you see the resem- blance? And that well-upholstered woman a few seats down the aisle? What is she? Why, she is an over-nourished, sit-by-the-fire tabby-cat. She has no pedigree, but she is comfortable and kind. She is too satisfied to be otherwise. You have seen, have you not, the “hobo cat”? He is quite lean and ner- vous; he is all energy, speculation, and has an inexhaustible curiosity about the world and life. I have seen many people like that. Their eyes are bright, shining; they move with the sure-footedness of the cat, and, like their green-eyed hobo friends, they are lithe and restless. They are young, eager tourists of the rails who have an all-absorbing curiosity about people and places. Also, like the hobo cat, as they grow older they grow unkempt and shiftless and their eyes are always searching, searching—for what, they know not. The wanderlust has had its way. What did you say? Oh, yes, to be sure—the tame cat. That tall, thin, young chap over there—do you see him? His hair and eyes are of a non- descript color and he has an indifferent smudge on his upper lip—I believe he calls it a moustache. To complete the impression, he wears on the top of his head a soft hat of the pancake variety. Yes, indeed, tame-cat is written all over him. And then, those big, red-faced, burly men who do more or less manual labor—these I have, in the main, labeled “‘tom-cats’”. They are rough and rugged, and can stand as much punishment as the tom-cat who serenades us at 2.30 A. M. and somehow still manages to survive. And, last of all, we have the loveliest and most charming—the aristo- crat. Such people are tall, gracefully slender; their features are delicately and exquisitely modeled, and their skin is smooth, creamy, and soft; they dress well and in excellent taste. They are Persian cats, the aristocrats in the land of felines. They are at once the most delightful and the most dan- gerous of all the cat tribe. I have no doubt that you will think, “What a catty, scratchy essay!” Quite true, but such is life ‘“‘among us cats”. fine Cc [ 222 ]

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Dick was prompted to say, “No!” and hang up, but he desisted. Instead, he managed a feeble, “I guess so.” “T knew you would. Well, Dick, I’m going to have a costume party next week Saturday, and I want you to come—oh, awfully!” “Uh—thanks. Uh—waita minute...” (“Kitty—promise—darn!”’ he thought, inwardly raging.) Then: “Guess I'll be able to make it all! right. Be delighted. What kind of a party d’you say it is?” “A costume party. Everyone is to come in ball costume.”’ “Oh.” Mechanically Dick hung up the receiver. He thought more thoughts about Kitty and that promise. A costume party of all things! What should he wear? Dick glared at the innocent telephone, shuffled back to his room, squinted at the alarm clock, and subsided under the bed clothes again with a grunt. But sleep was fugitive; in vain did he pursue it. He even attempted a mild snore, but the clock mocked him with a steady “tick-tock- tick-tock” that beat upon his already troubled mind like a tattoo. Dick gave up. “Keep still, can’t you—for one minute? No, you can’t. Never knew one like you that would at the right time. If I wanted you to go, you’d stop dead. You make me tired!’ And he affirmed this statement by yawning prodigiously. “Richard! Rich-ard! Do you know what time it is?’ mother’s voice. nYCaee eOn “Are you going to get up?” “Yes, lam!” Exasperated, he jumped out of bed and began a hunt for his various articles of clothing which were scattered in as many various directions. “Now where the heck are my socks? I left them right here.’ He stubbed his toe on a chair leg. “Oh-h. . . .” He groped for a word as well as the socks. At lunch time Katherine Merrill, reading on the porch, saw her brother come striding up the walk with a stern and forbidding expression on his face. He flung himself down in the hammock. “TI tell you, Kitty, I’m not going to be roped into any more of your schemes. First it’s that awful party, and next it’s playing tennis with that kiddish Betty Douglas. No, you needn’t deny it. You sent me over there this morning for one reason and one only—” “Don’t you like her, Dick?” “Like her? Huh!” He paused, inadequate of expression. “Huh!” “Come on, old boy, what’s wrong? You’ve had a grouch on all day.” “Well, what are you going to wear to that party?” “Clothes, my dear boy, clothes.” “You don’t say?” sarcastically. “Do you know, I’m thinking seriously of wearing them myself.” “T would, if I were you.” Richard went into the house in search of refreshment, the problem of a costume still on his mind. It remained there all the next week. Inspira- tions were scarce. Friday evening, twenty-four hours from the time when he must appear at Miss Douglas’s in some sort of a rig, Dick sat alone on the front porch gazing tragically at the moon. It was big and round and white like a ball—a baseball. The man in the moon winked at him, and he winked ’ It was his [ 224 ]