Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

Page 22 text:

20 THE SENIOR MAGNET hasn’t been feeling well lately. He'll be all right. Just wait. Say, what do you think Sam told me last night?----” For the next few days Henry was a morose man. Wherever he went a kind of threatening gloom surrounded him. His hours of returning home from the office became irregular, and at night he devoured the most radical literature. At this time the Red movement was gathering momentum, and it was supposed that a date had been set for the outbreak. And the Burgesses were still without a cook. On that fateful morning Henry came down to breakfast with a preoccupied air. The meek, mild-mannered Mr. Burgess seemed like another individual. He was ready to snap at his wife on the slightest excuse. After another wretched meal, he grabbed his hat from the rack and with his hand on the door knob turned, to Claire. “See here, young woman, I want you to tell that young Bob Wilson to keep away from the house after this.” Claire looked at her father as if she could hardly believe him. “Why daddy, you always said—.“ “Don’t try to make excuses. When a young fellow sits out on the front porch till hours of the night, every night in the week, and plays that infernal mandolin of his, it’s time I took a hand. Let him stay away after this.” And Henry slammed the door behind, leaving inside a startled woman and a girl with brimming eyes. He paused a moment on the sidewalk to light a cigar. The morning was clear and cool, and the sun, still low in the heavens, made a glittering gem of each shining dewdrop. Be-tore him stretched the gleaming Hudson, winding its way down thru the palisades, and the government munition works across the river loomed up against the skyline. The day shift was just going on, and the men thronging the gates looked like an army of ants. It was a day to make one exult in the pure joy of living. But Henry ambled off to the street car with a preoccupied air, never raising his head. Today was the appointed time for the Red Revolution. As he edged his way to the law office, in the crowd at Wood Avenue and Fifth Street, a roughly dressed workman slid up to him and furtively slipped him a dirty piece of paper. Henry gave a hurried glance at the writing, and went on. At the office Henry fooled around all day with an excitement which he tried in vain to conceal. Well along in the afternoon he seized his hat with half suppressed eagerness, and made his way swiftly through the downtown portion of the city. Huge buildings and skyscrapers gave way to squatty, dirty brick, stores and tenements. A coating of soot, black and greasy, covered everything. At last the crosstown car stopped at West 126th street. Henry stepped off and pushed his way down a side street until he stood in front of a small but neat-looking tobacco store. In the window was a sign Rooms to Rent Upstairs.” Henry carefully compared the number with that on a dirty scrap of paper which he had, and casting a cautious glance about him, ascended the staircase and rapped three times at the door at the head of the stairs. It opened silently, and Henry slipped through. 'I'lie door closed behind him. Perhaps five minutes later the door opened again and Henry reappeared, accompanied by a heavily veiled woman dressed in black. She carried only a small black bag, of which she took the greatest care. She held it in front of her all the time, and seemed to be extremely fearful lest it should bump anything. Together they entered a

Page 21 text:

THE SENIOR MAGNET 10 Dr. Burke and Parker stepped from shook his head, the passage way on the right. Swiftly That night one came back to life and the doctor examined Mrs. Foraker and another died. ------b.-h.-s.--------- THE TASK John Dodds Up to that fateful week in July, Henry Burgess had been a mild mannered man. There was no doubt of that. Even his wife admitted as much, and Claire, his daughter, had only to sit on her dad’s knee and stroke his bald head with her soft hand, to obtain the fondest wish of her heart. Claire was just home from college, and could coax very prettily. No, Henry had without a doubt been the meekest man in Tarrytown. His very appearance indicated that. Of medium height, slim, and with a slight stoop, he was remarkably successful at effacing himself in a crowd. By one of the little jokes of life, his wife was of a commanding physique, and in a rush she always went first, with Henry following in her wake. The top of his head was as bald as an ostrich egg; the only foliage which he possessed being a patch of grey above each ear. His friendly blue eyes gazed cheerfully over a pair of old-fashioned iron rimmed nose glasses. He fitted in exactly with his musty law offices, with its rows upon rows of hide-covered books, the old desk in the corner, and the squeaky office chair. Altogether, you would say, a kindly, well meaning gentleman, incapable of harming anyone. And so he was, but remember that this was before the first week in July, when the great Bolshevik Revolution threatened to spring forth full fledged in the United States. The metamorphosis in Henry was sudden—it was first noticed at the breakfast table one morning. The Bur- gesses has been left without a cook the week before, and in spite of every effort to secure another, they had been unable to fill the vacancy, and Mrs. Burgess, although she did her best to serve up palatable dishes, was rather a failure in the kitchen. On this morning Henry, after trying some bacon which had been burnt to a crisp, and despairingly biting into a sodden biscuit, caught up the morning paper, but had hardly started an article headed “Local Leader of Reds Suspected to Be a Woman,” when he threw the paper down and swung into a tirade against the government. “I’d like to know what things are coming to,” he snapped in closing. “When I have to pay the price I did yesterday for that coal in the cellar, I tell you there’s something radically wrong. If the government won’t step in and stop these everlasting prices, there’s always some way out. For instance these Reds,” and he returned to his article. When her husband had left for the office, Mrs. Burgess, trying to clean a burnt pan, said to Claire, “I don’t know what has come over your father lately. Of course he raves about the president, and the high cost of everything, but lately he’s got to acting so strange—he talks in his sleep, and says the most terrible things about bombs and explo sions. Claire, you don’t suppose your father is a Bolshevist, do you ?” “No, no, Mumsey, don’t get worried,” said Claire. “You know dad misses Norah’s cooking badly, and he

Page 23 text:

THE SENIOR MAGNET 21 street car. The cross-town trip was an agony of suspense for Henry. Several times when a man would brush past his seat, he would look up in alarm, the picture of terror. The lady in black said nothing, but held the black bag carefully on her knee. At last they were out in the suburbs of the city. Together they alighted from the car, and quietly approached Henry Burgess’ house. Dusk was falling and across the river light were breaking out in the munition plant. '1'he lady in black and Henry stared long at the scene, then turned, and walked up the steps onto the porch. 'Phe front door burst open and the large bulk of Mrs. Burgess stood framed in the doorway. Henry rushed forward and embraced his wife. “Martha,” he cried, “Martha, here’s the new cook. I had a time getting her here,” he added in an undertone; “You know Smith was after her, too, and I wasn’t so sure that he wouldn’t run into us on the car, and try to bribe her away.” A burst of joy flooded over Mr. Burgess’ face. She ran forward. “Let me take your bag,” she smiled. The ladv in black lifted the heavy veil from her face. ‘‘No. mum, thank ye just the same, I’ll take it meself,” she said. “1 have some china in it that was the gift of me first husband, and I wouldn’t have it broken for the woild. Yes, mum. my trunk is coming tomorrow.” After a dinner that evening which had satisfied Henry Burgess as he had not been satisfied for two weeks, he leaned back in his chair and hit ofif the end of a fat cigar. Mrs. Burgess spoke up, “Henry, you know I don’t allow you to smoke in the house. You go out on the.porch.” “Yes, my dear,” said her spouse, and he sauntered out. 'Phe night was clear and the sky was starlit. The arc light on the corner cast grotesque shadows on the pavement. Across the street a group of laughing children were roller skating, when the figure of a brisk young man came down the street. It hesitated for a moment at the corner, then crossed the street from the Burgess home. Henry leaned forward from his easy chair. Then he arose and called across the street, “Boh, s-a-y Bob. 'Phe young fellow stopped in his tracks, undecided whether to run or to face the music. “Come on over here.” Boh Wilson crossed the street. “Just a minute before 1 call Claire, said Henry. I wanted to ask you if you had seen the evening paper yet. You did? What did it say about the Bolshevik uprising? Squelched, eh? Good! “My hoy, I’ve been thinking along that a line a good bit lately, and it’s clear to be seen that it doesn’t pay to buck the government. We old fellows are apt to crab around a good bit, but when it comes down to fundamentals, the government is doing the best it can for us. I tell you we should be proud of our country.” Young Wilson was evidently ill at ease. He tried to speak several times but something seemed to clog the words in his throat. Just then Henry clapped him on the hack. His blue eyes were twinkling “Here comes Claire now. I'll just go into the house. And say, Bob, bring your mandolin along every night you come over here. There’s nothing like good music to quiet an old duffer after a hard day’s work at court.” (NOTE:—The above story was a contest story and was given third prize by the judges.—A. A. H.)