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

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brick mansion. Roth policemen hurriedly alighted from the car, and ran to the door where, in reply to their constant ringing of the doorbell, a Chinese servant, answered their summons. The servant said that the head of the house was busy in the library, and tried to intercept the two men—but in vain. O’Neil, the “brains” of the force, angrily pushed him aside, stalked to what he assumed to be the library door, pushed it open and found—not a dead man as he had expected—but Carl Rhend himself smiling and glowing with health. The importer asked anxiously: What is all the trouble O’Neil (O’Neil was well known)? No, I haven’t touched the telephone today. Yes, you may look around.” O’Neil started up stairs with Cassidy at his heels, and, just as they had reached a landing on the second floor, a roar of gunfire shattered the tomb like silence of the place. Like a flash of lightning O’Neil bolted for the first door, reached the library, and flung open the door to discover—not the smiling Carl Rhend who had graciously welcomed them— but a dead Carl Rhend with a bullet through the middle of his forehead! “Round up the cook and the butler in the kitchen, and tell the men from the patrol cars to surround the house,” barked Cassidy. In the kitchen, O’Neil had a difficult time with the cook who insisted that he must stay in the kitchen to make certain that the duck which was roasting in the oven would not burr.. Finally, he was persuaded by force to go to the designated room. From the two and only servants, Cassidy learned that Carl Rhend had in the safe some very valuable jewels. The open safe confirmed the belief that the motive of the murder was robbery. The Chinese servants insisted that they had been no where near the scene of the murder; Lang—the cook—saying that he was on the third floor, and Chang—the butler—saying that he had been asleep. Who committed the murder? Lang or Chang? These were the only two in the house, besides the officers, at the time of the killing. To make matters easier, I’ll eliminate Chang for you by saying that he was an undercover man for the United States Customs. Now, we know Lang is the murderer! Here’s another clue as to how Lang committed the murder—in a large mansion such as Carl Rhend’s, there is usually a dumb waiter, cleverly disguised as a closet. The questions without answers: How was Lang able to get from the third to the first floors with such amazing rapidity? Who sent in the “murder call” to police headquarters? Where were the jewels hidden? RUTH TATTRIE, 12A. TOO REALISTIC It was a cold night; the streets were shrouded in velvety blackness. Somewhere, a dog howled mournfully, while an owl hooted discordantly. Step, step, step—what was that strange noise in the eerie stillness of the night? Step, step, step—then a pause. The maker of those uncanny beats leaned wearily against a lamp-post. The yellow light, illuminating a white, girlish face, with trembling lips, and violet-shadowed eyes. As if with an effort, the eyes opened, and the girl looked confusedly at the dismal surroundings. Her eyes fell on a bridge nearby, and like one fascinated, she walked slowly across to it, and stood staring down—down into the murky depths which seemed to stretch comforting arms to her. Climbing to the rail, she stood there, wavering, a beautiful poised silhouette in the shadows. Step—step—step.—then a pause. Who could it be? A tall handsome man came out of the shadows, looking dejected and sad. He saw the girl, and ran to her, “Mary Brown! Good GREEN wmdL WD1 DUE- 30

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SOPHOMORE CLASS—CLASSICAL AND GENERAL DIVISION

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heavens, my girl! What are you doing here ? You, the girl, whom everyone is looking for. What------” “Here, here, what’s this all about?” broke in a voice. There stood a powerful Irish policeman, arms akimbo, who eyed them suspiciously. “Here you, get down from that rail. Din’t ye know ye should niver take ye own life. Now—” “But, she’s not committing suicide,” broke in the girl’s companion. ‘‘She’s only acting her part. You see—” “Acting a part!” exclaimed the policeman. “Well, you’d better tell it to the chief.” He led them away, protesting, and consequently didn’t hear a voice say “Take it away!” In the police station, all was confusion, pandemonium reigned. The “law-breakers” tried in vain to explain to the unbelieving men, who turned deaf ears to their entreaters. They were led to cells, the girl weeping hysterically. The next morning newsboys yelled in the streets, “Extra, extra, read all about the disappearance of beautiful Rochelle Chester. But the picture in the paper looks nothing like her. In such circumstances, how could she explain that in the picture she had a wig and theatrical make-up on. Finally, because the men could no longer stand her insistent pleas, a detective was summoned who identified her as the beautiful Miss Chester. He then explained that her intended suicide was a part in the scene she played, and her companion was Foster Sherwood, the hero. The director had thought the policeman episode was really a part of the act, for, he could not read his script in the darkness. After Rochelle’s disappearance, it was thought that she had been kidnapped by a criminal in uniform. After Rochelle returned to her parents, she stated that an actress’s life was too dangerous for her and promptly turned to Foster and married life. “These women,” groaned the director, pulling his hair. NORM A DRAINVILLE, ’38. A YOUTH’S DREAM When I sit upon the dock, I forget the progress of the clock . I dream of things that I, in fancy, see: The thrills, and romances of the sea. I dream of pirates, brave and bold, Who roamed the seas in days of old. Of pirates about whose reckless deeds we read; Of pirates who fought, their men to lead. I dream of “Yankee Clippers” with decks of elm. Of their brave captains at the helm, And then of the men before the mast, Who left their homes, ere youth was passed. I dream of giant battleships so bright and clean. And of destroyers, swift, long and lean. I hear their cannons roar and belch forth lead, Then I see the soul-stirring sea-burial of the dead. Finally, as I turn toward home, In my mind rests one thought alone: Sometime in the future, I must be A sailor on the rolling sea. HENRY TRUDELL, ’36. LIMERICK There once was a young man named Pete, Who stepped on everyone’s feet. One day while in line, He stepped right on mine, And now he is wearing false teeth. JOSEPH PINE, ’38 GREEN amdLWOimnE- 31