Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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10 THE SENIOR MAGNET the address on it,” the other man replied. “That was careless, but I guess there wasn’t anything important on it. Come to 214 1-2 Manchester Lane. There’ll be three other men there and Erdmann has something to tell us. Don’t forget the suitcase or the papers either.” After a few more instructions the two men parted, leaving Tiny Tim puzzled at what he had heard, for it was just what had been on the slip of paper which he had found. As for the men, Tiny Tim had often seen the one with the black moustache going into the room next to his and he had wondered what such a well dressed man could be doing in so poor a place. Then at other times he had heard subdued voices far into the night, but he had always been too tired to pay any attention to them. However, he was determined that this night he would listen to what the men were saying. That evening Tiny Tim moved his mattress over close to the partition and lay down to await the appointed hour, but the strain of the day proved too much for him and he soon fell fast asleep. It was not until after midnight that he was aroused by sounds in the adjoining room. Sleepily he remembered the meeting of the five men which was planned for that night. For several moments the boy listened intently but all was silence. Then muffled foot-steps were heard in the hall and the door of the neighboring room opened. “It’s about time you were getting here; we’ve been waiting for almost half an hour and a few minutes might mean life or death to us.” Tiny Tim recognized the voice as that of the man with the black moustache. “Well, I would have been here sooner but one of those fool Bobbies was walking up and down in front of here and I didn’t want him to catch me with this suitcase.” This sounded like the other man whom Tiny Tim had seen that day. “Come on, let’s get down to business. Erdmann has found out for sure that these troops that were here today sail from South Hampton tomorrow night and one of us has to place the bomb on the transport. We’ll draw lots and see which one it’ll be.” The first man, who was evidently the leader. was speaking again. There was a moment of intense silence, broken finally bv the solemn voice of the leader, “It’s for the Fatherland, Mueller, and your’s is the privilege.” Herr Mueller’s patriotism seemed to be chilled a little by the thought of what it would mean to him. “Ja, ja, a great honor! What do T get out of it, nothing but a watery grave with those verdampt Americans !” “But the Fatherland, the Father-land, Mueller, thing of it! There’ll be thousands of Americans go down with you and all Germany will honor you, so vour sacrifice will be worth while.” Suddenly the plot dawned on Tiny Tim and he was t|uick to grasp the seriousness of the situation—to realize that any moment the meeting might break up so that immediate action was necessary. Stealthily the boy crawled to the street door and then as fast as his two crutches could carry him, he hobbled towards the corner of Manchester Lane and Mulberry street where he was sure to find his faithful friend, Jerry, a London Bobby. Never had the distance to the corner seemed so great as it did in the darkness of that night, but finally Tiny Tim was telling all that he had overheard to the kindly, big policeman. In several long strides, Jerry was at the call

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THE SENIOR MAGNET 9 DETECTIVE TIM Ei.tzabeth Abrams “Extra! Extra! British break through Hindenburg’s line! Extra! All the latest war news! But Tiny Tim’s shrill cry was drowned by the lusty cheers which were greeting the arrival of Pershing’s troops in London. Although the sight of American soldiers in Regent street was no longer an uncommon one. it never failed to stir the little newsboy’s patriotic heart and to make him wish he could light beside them for his flag. But Tiny Tim, known by this name because of his lameness and continued cheerfulness, seemed to have no place in the wild enthusiasm of the crowd. Why was he not like other hoys; why must he alone limp slowly along while his companions raced beside the soldiers; why must he stand forlornly on the curb unable even to march with the hoy scouts in the long parades? When he thought of his inability to help the men in the trenches—many of whom had been daily customers at his stand and some of whom would never return—even his happy disposition could not keep down the lump which persisted in rising to his throat. For after all Tinv Tim was only a little fellow and sometimes his lot in life looked pretty hard to him. As he watched the steady procession of khaki-clad figures tramping down the street on their way to the transport, hot tears rose to his eyes and turning from the noisy throng he crept into a quiet side street. There he sank into a dejected little heap and cried brokenly until the sound of heavy footsteps approaching caused him to sit up and hastily wipe away the traces of tears. A man passed near him, taking no notice of the dismal figure on the doorstep. and drew out a packet of papers from which a scrap of paper fell unheeded as he hurried on. The hoy reached for the paper and was about to follow the man and return it to him hut he was nowhere in sight so Tinv Tim’s curiosity prompted him to see what was on it. The paper was covered with closely written words hut they weren’t such ones as Tim had learned at school so the neatly folded scrap meant nothing to him. He was about to throw it away again when he noticed something very familiar at the bottom of the page, “214 t-2 Manchester Lane, 12:30 diese Xacht, and he certainly did know where that was, for didn’t he live at 215 Manchester Lane? But 12:30 —what could 12:30 stand for? Maybe half past twelve. However, Tiny Tim was too busy thinking of the soldiers to care about such nonsense, so he crumpled the paper and thrust it into his pocket. lie picked up his crutches and started down the alley, whistling merrily, for Tiny Tim could not he sad very long. At the corner he stopped and leaned against the post to rest for a moment. Following him were two men, so deeply engrossed in their conversation that, when they also paused at the corner, they did not notice the little cripple standing near by. “Now, you he sure to get there on time. Not a minute after half past twelve,” the man with the hlack moustache was saying. “I’ll be there all right, hut where’d you sav we’d meet? I’ve lost that slip of paper you gave me and it had

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THE SENIOR MAGNET 11 station telephoning to Scotland Yard. “This is Number 315 at Mulberry Crossing. Five German spies ’ave been discovered at 214 1-2 Manchester Lane. Send six Secret Service men 'ere and the patrol and we can cover them.” . . . “Yes, sir, we’ve got the hevidence on them.” . . “Yes. sir. I’ll wait, sir.” Jerry was back at Tiny Tim’s side. “You stay ’ere, kid, we’ll need your hevidence against them.” It was only a few minutes before the motor car was beside them and Terry and Tiny Tim climbed in. At the tenement house two of the men were stationed by the fire escape while the other four with Jerry noiselessly mounted to the room. Just as the officers reached the end of the dark hall, door No. 214 1-2 opened and four men came out. Before they had time to realize what had happened they were roughly seized and rushed down to the patrol. The other man—the leader—darted to the window and down the fire escape only to be met at the bottom by the two guards. On the way to Scotland Yard. Tiny Tim had the seat of honor beside the driver where he sat erect as a soldier, his heart thumping proudly under his shabby coat, for the Secret Service men had praised him highly and had tolo him of what great value he had been to his country. When they reached the brightly lighted court at the Yard, Tiny Tim again told his story—this time to the interested Chief—while one of the officers opened the suspected suit case. From it he drew forth the trim uniform of an American soldier and a bomb containing enough deadly trini-tro-toluol to blow a huge ship to bits. Upon this evidence alone, the five Germans were later sentenced to be shot. “And as for you, Tim,” said the chief, “I want you to go with me tomorrow to St. James Park and see the wounded soldiers who have just returned from the front and who are to be decorated for bravery.” “I guess you’d better come with me now, sonny; me good wife Nora’ll find a comfortable bed for you in our ’ome down at Dover Circle an’ ye’re just to live with 11s always,” was Jerry’s cordial invitation. So Tiny Tim found a home—a home where there was a kind mother and a warm welcome waiting for him. The next day he went in a big automobile with the chief to the Park and when, after decorating the wounded Tommies, General Prince came over to the machine and pinned a shiny gold medal on Tim’s coat “for distinguished service in aiding his country’s cause and in saving the lives of thousands of soldiers,” there was not a prouder or happier boy in all London.