Bristol High School - Green and White Yearbook (Bristol, RI)

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THE GREEN AND WHITE 11 Fate. Kismet commands and we obey. “That is the babble of a fanatic,” replied Swift. “Mr. Swift, you are wrong, we are mere playthings, helpless toys.” “Playthings of Fate!” exclaimed Bayes. Swift arose and faced the crowd. His face was flushed and a brilliant, metallic luster shown in his eye. Five minutes later, after he had gone, when the last faint echo of his powerful car was lost in the gale, Hoyer broke the silence. “Swift bears watching, gentlemen, take it from me,” he said. “I think his mind is on the blink.” There was a general stir in the cabin, putting on of wraps, and soon the cabin stood empty. Back in the heart of the city. Swift planned everything. Fortune had not favored him lately and what was once a small fortune now amounted to three thousand dollars. Swift had decided to end it all. so the following day he was to take a tail-dive while performing and crash to the earth. That would be the end. Swift slept soundly until ten-thirty the next morning. At eleven he started for the field of performance. He arrived at the hangar just on time. The mechanics had just begun looking over the planes when Swift motioned them away. He had just begun warming his engine when his club friend arrived and he said, “Remember what I told you last night, I am going to prove that point of the argument now.” He was off the next moment. The trim “Bristol Scout” swept across the field and soon began to rise. When Swift reached an altitude of twelve thousand feet he shut off the motor. Below him was the rabble, the herd, the ones who had paid fifty cents to see a man die. Faster and faster spun the plane, gathering more momentum and revolution every hundred feet it fell. The plane had fallen to eight thousand feet when suddenly through a rift in the sky, a long golden streamer flashed over the glistening side of the plane, making it glow like a beautiful golden bird. Instinctively, Swift straightened the rudder bar and placed the joystick in neutral. The machine ceased spinning and he brought it to a level keel once more. He opened the throttle and the engine picked up immediately. Something within him opposed the fall. Now he wanted to live, he no longer craved death. He rose to his former altitude and decided that life was still sweet. All this change had been wrought bv the sun. In the following hour the daring flyer literally emblazoned his name. He went through the entire series of stunts, and when about to do the most difficult of all. the reverse loop. Swift lost control of the plane. Kismet ruled. He was after all, a mere toy, a plaything of Fate. The next moment the plane, in a mass of flames, came tumbling to the ground. The wild cheers and applause of the crowd died away into the mournful dirge, as the lifeless form of the daring young aviator was dragged from under the burning fuselage. RENE DAGENAIS. ’24. -----o------ A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER It was one of those nights when all the forces of the firmament seemed combined to deluge the inhabitants of the small town of Greenville after they had prepared for their night’s rest. The rain poured down in torrents and the wind was playing havoc with the tall trees through which it whistled and howled. Had any of my readers been there, they would have been surprised and annoyed to find a small, stooped, old man trying with all the energy he could command, to make his way over one of the steep hills which bordered the village. From the direction in which he was slowly making his way, it was evident that he was leaving the town for some untold reason. What would force a man out of a comfortable home on such a night, is beyond my powers of reasoning. Not once did he turn to take a last look at the small group of houses he was so anxious to leave; never did his eyes rest on anything except the ground, to w'atch how he was progressing. He seemed indifferent as to bow the rest of the world fared on that wretched night. Steadily, steadily, he plodded on his way. no umbrella sheltered his bare head, and a thin overcoat covered his feeble frame. The puddles into which he walked almost every time he took a step, were soaking his tired and blistered feet. Where was he going? Could it be an underground saloon which wras still continuing its trade despite the law? From the way in which he kept his eves on the ground one would have thought it possible. Or could it be that he was going to join his confederates to plot and rob a house? Perhaps they would make counterfeit money, who knows? Then again it might be that he was going to a secret gambling house which, if it had not been already raided, would be liable to be in the near future. Whatever destination he was intent upon arriving at. it mustt have been an evil one. No other kind of person could have been forced from his home on such a night. And still he plodded along the muddy road. He wras well out of town now and seemed sorry to leave it, for he turned around to take a last look, but his only view was that of the hill over which he had just climbed. Suddenly a large wooden house, poorly lighted, loomed into the pathway. What

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10 THE GREEN AND WHITE that he could get it. Frequently he was heard to say, “Gimme dat, mister!” So far he had never gained what he coveted. Instead, he always heard, “Next time, boy,” or “Get out o' my way, does vou all heah me?” Sambo’s uncle helped unload these ships when they came in. One day when the Empress of China” docked with thousands of these “wizards’ bombs” piled high on the decks, Sambo was sure that his next time had come, at last. The unloading began as soon as the ship was made fast, but Sambo’s “Gimma dat” and “Gimme dis” were at first unheeded by the busy men. “Gimme dat,” shouted Sambo once more, “Gimme dat, Uncle!” He kept shouting this as each big bomb” was tossed to his uncle on the shore. “Gimme dat! Gimme dis!” snorted the Uncle. “Boy, doesn’t yoh folks teach you all any manners in speakin’?” A moment later he shouted “Heah, take hit. and make yourself scarce!” He put the big “bomb” in Sambo’s arms. Sambo scampered off with his prize. It was clumsy, and he had quite a time in getting it home. Often he had to sit down and rest. Finally he burst into his own cabin, shouting. “Gimme dat axe. Mammy! Quick. Mammy, gimme dat axe.” for he wanted to see what was inside the “bomb.” “Boy, whar’s yoh manners?” asked his mother, looking at the queer thing he placed on the table. “What you all been toting home?” she added as Sambo ran to the wood! box to get his father's axe. Whar yoh git dat?” “Dat’s a wizard’s bomb. Uncle giv it to me offen de big boat.” “A wizard’s bomb!” screamed the mother, taking the axe. “Ah reckon yoh uncle is a-losing his mind. Better leave yoh hands offen hit. Don’t know what ’tis?” “Dis is a wizard’s bomb. Mammy! It cum from Honomaloala,” answered Sambo. “Gimme dat axe!” The “bomb” rolled over at this point. “It’s alive. Mammy, it’s alive,” shouted Sairibo to his scared mother. At this she crashed the axe down upon the “wizard’s bomb.” Her powerful strength sent the axe clear through the husk and shell of a cocoanut. The milk spattered all over Sambo. “Guess dat’s de Presto Change Man teaching you-all to say “please!” remarked the mother as she laughingly wiped the cocoanut milk from Sambo’s eye. KATHERINE BULLOCK. '24. -----o----- PLAYTHINGS OF FATE In a little weather-beaten cabin located eight miles from the city, in the midst of a wooded section of the country, a group of airmen, ex-military and civilian, gathere I each night to discuss the recent discoveries, and to exchange tales of adventure. It is strange that these one-time members of the sixty-third squadron should choose for their rendezvous such an isolated spot, away from the roar and grind of city life; but it is not beyond our understanding when one has learned the peculiarities of these men. Accustomed to outdoor life, adventure and solitude, detesting the bedlam and stifle of the city, this lonely and rough-hewn cabin fitted well with the men who occupied it. It was a late September night. The wind was high and shrill, and through the lashing tops of the spruce and hemlock trees the wind played a fitful dirge. Inside the meeting-place everything was warm and cheerful. The roaring fire in the hearth whooped defiance to the storm without, and cast around the four walls, which were adorned with pictures of flyers and airplanes, a ruddy glow. From the smoke blackened rafters hung several oil lamps which cast upon the assemblage an abundant shower of light. A half dozen members of the sixty-'third, who were responsible for these meetings, made up the group. There was Captain Langrick, Majors Hoyer, Bayes, Swift, Miller and Hoyt. Miller was an ace with seven planes to his credit. There was a lull in the conversation, while the men stared dreamily into the glow of the fire. The wind moaned dismally through the tree tops overhead, and the fire sputtered and flickered, sounding like the death rattle. Another gust of wind whistled around the corners, wailing like a lost soul in despair. Some of the flyers stirred uneasily, and Swift shuddered. “Someone is walking over my grave,” he said, gazing with a fixed countenance into the ruddy fire. The flyers looked up quickly and stared at Swift. He had been in a despondent mood for several days past, but this statement upset the calmness of the whole group. “Bosh.” exclaimed Hoyer, “What makes you talk so foolish?” “It isn’t foolishness, it’s a fact,” replied Swift. “What?” asked Miller. “That tomorrow I am going to crash, fall to my death At this time tomorrow night I shall be a corpse. I know it.” A long silence ensued, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece. “You don’t know,” contradicted Capt. Langrick, after a long deep sigh. “You don’t know when you are going to die. No man knows; it is not written so. Fate decrees that no man shall know when his hour shall come. He may get impressions— false ! He may dream—disordered stomach. We are no our own masters, we are all compelled 'ten. powerless in the hands of

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12 THE GREEN AND WHITE was this house? Was it one cf the places before mentioned? He entered it and was lost to view. You will be surprised to find that it was the '•POOR HOUSE.” ARLEEN HOLM. '24. -----o----- TOM’S CHRISTMAS It was the month of December, a cold, dreary month, with many severe storms which had played havoc with the small fishing vessels that sailed from Province-town harbor to the Newfoundland Banks. So far, the Iliad, which was the most up-to-date and fully equipped fishing schooner that plied the trade between these two ports, had escaped the wTath of the storms. It was in the middle of December, when the Iliad made her last trip from the Newfoundland Banks, when she encountered a terrible hurricane. The night was very dark and cold, and the wind was blowing a gale, driving before it a furious blizzard. Tom, the eighteen years old son of a lighthouse keeper, was a husky six-footer, and a Senior at the Provincetown High School. This stormy night he was alone with his mother to care for the light. His father had gone to Provincetown that morning to do some shopping, leaving Tom and his mother at home. While the lighthouse keeper was away, the blizzard came up, one of the most extraordinary ones which had ever been witnessed on the bleak shores of New England. Under such conditions, Tom’s father did not venture to return. That night Tom took his father’s place by attending to the large lamp in the tower. After Tom had lighted the lamp, and had partaken of his supper, he went into the tower again. While the wind howled fiercely about the tower, Tom was hammering. hammering away on the key of his wireless, which was connected to the tower. About nine o’clock, when he found he could pick up no message, and just as he was going to close the current and take off his receiving piece, he heard a faint buzzing sound in his ears. Now it was more distinct, and slowly he heard the death defying message : “S-O-S—Struck rocks off Race Point. L. H. about mile and one-half from shore, to the northwest.” With as little information as that, Tom decided to rescue the men if it were possible, for the Race Point L. H. was the very one he was attending. Tom quickly slipped on his oilskins, told his mother the message, and immediately struck out into the blinding blizzard for the life guard house. Tom ran the whole distance without even stopping for his breath. He arrived at the lifeguard station, rang the bell, a distress signal, and walked in, all out of breath. He delivered his message and ran back to the lighthouse. Soon there were three twentv-foot cutters starting from shore, towards the wreck. The billows tossed very high that night, and the blinding blizzard made it hard for the men to row. But Tom, who had gone back to the light, was not idle during this time. He had launched his father’s eighteen-foot dory, and was far ahead of the regular life-savers, for his father’s boat was much lighter than the cutters of the lifeguards. When he had reached the first mile, he was very tired but he would not give in. His sturdy hands clutched the oars more firmly and once more he struck out with all his strength. The lifeguards were now approaching, for Tom, nearly exhausted, could not row so fast, but he managed to reach the wrecked schooner first He took on as many men as his boat could carry, told the remaining crew that the lifeguards were coming, and made for shore. All had gone well so far, but now his boat was loaded to the limit, and it made matters very dangerous. Twice the cutter nearly capsized on its way to the shore, and more than once did the surge of some roaring billow envelop the frail craft as though it were about to devour her. The blizzard also added to the discomfort of the men. who were nearly frozen before they reached shore. Once more when only one hundred and fifty feet from shore the boat would have capsized, but for the strong and sturdy arms of Tom who could master the dory as well and perhaps better than a well experienced seaman. After the men reached shore, they were provided for. Two days later Tom was proclaimed a hero in all New England papers. That year he spent a most beautiful Christmas by going to Washington, where on Christmas day he partook of his dinner in the White House with the President of our country, and later in the day at a formal ceremony. Tom was presented a very beautiful gold medal—the highest honor bestowed on any one in this country for bravery and heroism. RENE DAGENAIS, ’24. ------o----- WEDNESDAY MORNING Oh! it’s awful to recite, You shake and tremble so with fright, And in the chair you sit and wait, Wondering if the next name will decide your fate. Then to the platform front you walk. You think your heart will surely stop, And when your piece you try to speak. You only stammer and gaze at your feet. The auditorium seems to whirl, And lips with a terrible scorn to curl, And eyes like arrows sharp.