Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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was followed by Fannie Weiss and Sophie Dwork with Votes for Women” signs across their chests. At the London stock market | saw Stew Веа!- tie, not the runner of yore, but a bank runner. It had long been my desire to see the famous Monte Carlo, so I crossed the channel and took a train for the city where fortunes are won and lost in an hour. Just as I expected, there in a corner of a large gam- bling den sat Jake Horowitz and Jules Lubowitt matching nickels. This was a game in which they had long been proficient, so I was not surprised. I went next to see the wonderful sights of “Сау Paree. I knew no French so I went directly to the American consul for advice. He was Freddy Nava- tier, sure enough. Through him I learned a few words of French and received some directions for getting around. I entered the first high-class cabaret I saw, on the Rue Jardin, where, among the revelers, I was just in time to see Prof. Joseph Kiell and his dancing partner, Emma Yates, go through a series of dances of their own invention. My business next directed me toward Germany, and I arrived in the city of Berlin at night. Early the next morning I wandered through the streets, watching the many curious sights. They were curious sights indeed. There was Ernest Kritzmacher in front of a bakery, pipe in mouth and covered from head to foot with flour. From him I learned that a symphony orchestra was in town and, liking good music, I went to see the performance, which was Niemand Zu Hause. The curtain went up at eight o'clock and Pasquale Sozio, the world's most famous violinist, appeared, amid great applause. A selection. from Wagner followed, and after the applause had sub- sided, Mme. Tlusty sang Im Vaterland, and bou- quets were showered upon the world’s loveliest soprano. The wee hours of morning came rapidly, but before I went to bed, I visited the Berlin six-day race. Riding around the saucer were the following teams: Salerno and Primamore, Greenspan and Chivian, Friedman and Hand. In the middle of the saucer, behind a hot-dog stand, was Issy Steinbock, barking out his wares, while his partner, Sarah Seiler, was giving first aid to what appeared to be the remains of Goldberg and Campbell. They had been attacked with stones and bottles for ruining the Ger- man opera, Romany, I think. 'The pair had traveled these thirty years on their nerve, attempting finally to enter grand opera, but the gallery boys didn't appreciate their attempt. Another day in the land of Karl Marx, I visited the Temple of Socialism, which now ruled the world. There on the walls of the famous art galleries were the portraits of. Abe Breitbarth and our old-time editor, Eddie Douglas. Poor Eddie! Many 12 were the days he had spent in the rat hole in Cen- tral High, but now he is in a hole six feet under, long dead of spats disease. Oh yes, and there was Harry Schaub, as well—not the Harry of years gone by, but the Harry of a new era, dressed in overalls, with a pail of water and a scrub brush, busily washing the picture of Eddie, thinking of the many happy days they had spent together. Little had ke realized that the picture in front of him would survive THE Pivot of January, 1917. Italy I visited next, where Rome revealed the strange sight of Cardinale, an Italian duke, feeding pigeons in the market place, while his wife, the former Alice Filippone, was keeping the younger Cardinales from pulling the feathers from the pigeons’ tails. Wil liam Heyer, the man of elevated ideas, who used to push the artist’s brush for THE Pivot, I saw pushing a different kind of brush around the streets of Rome, and on investigation, I found that he had to have it made to order. The first stop I made after leaving Italy was at the islands in the southern Pacific, where we landed in the afternoon. Before evening set in, I roamed into a grove of large bamboo trees. I had taken about four steps, when all of a sudden a cocoanut grazed my upper extremity. Upon looking up into the tree, I beheld the features of Alan Bolles, not so much like the Bolles of '17 as like one of our Darwinian ancestors. Evidently Bolles had ‘read so much of the theory that he was degenerating very rapidly. A small ribbon was tied around his neck and I imagined it was to keep in mind the one for whom he had worked so hard thirty years ago. A new version of Yaaka Hula Hickey Dula” was the first sound brought to my ears, and there in a straw tent I recognized Eleanor Floyd going through the rhythmic motions of a Hawaiian dancer. A private steam yacht brought me to the land о! the free once more, and the Golden Gate appeared in the distance. Back on American soil, and under the protection of Old Glory, I visited the janitor of the San Francisco City Hall, Saul Goldstein, who introduced his wife, formerly Fannie Abramson. My next stop was at Chicago, and in the State Assembly was Harry Polak— not the Harry of old. but a revised man, stalwart and honest, and a staunch upholder of the honor of the class of January, 1917. While in Chicago I renewed the acquaintance of Wilbur Henderson, who had hoped to be a civil engineer, but who was running a trolley car and trying to be civil in replying to the questions asked when not surveying the nickel industry. Oh, yes! There was Max Greenberg also. Poor Max, gray haired and looking the worse from rough work, was greasing the switches for the street railway company of that town.

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that your story was a base fabrication of les to ruin Scott. I'll give you an hour to return the cups. If in that time they are not forthcoming, your connections with this campus are broken. I want nothing from you. Go. It is enough that one of my students should do anything as unbelieveable as thi s. I have no more to say. De Forrest turned abjectly away from that adaman- tine countenance. He saw not the faintest ray of hope in it. He had been tricked! Some unseen forces had worked against him. Murray believed that he had stolen the cups and had concocted a plot to disgrace Scott. He cursed the folly that entangled him in his own trap. He had been outwitted. There was noth- ing to do but follow the path which he had allotted for Scott. An hour later, without a farewell to anyone, Layton De Forrest slunk out from the campus to the railroad station. He never knew who it was that convicted him. His evil plans had brought nothing but his own down- fall. Skeets Murray never divulged the story which he believed was the true one of the robbery and he never knew that each of the cups found its rightful owner, since everyone was pledged to secrecy. He returned the two cups to Scott without any explanation. Scott's gratitude to his three friends for their act was boundless. He could only say: Ive learned my lesson. Мо more gambling for mine.” The Wanderings of a Central Senior PauL MorrirT—CLass PROPHET As the sun was going down over the Jersey shore, our vessel pulled out of the wharf to deep water under the guidance of many little tugs. I, the class wanderer, at once retired to my stateroom to make ready for supper. “аз call for supper; last call, came from the dining room, and as Í passed to the table I recognized the head waiter as Bennie Shachat of the class of January, 1917. Not being very hungry, I left the table, so Bennie, anxious to please, took me to the kitchen and pointed out Ciccone, Rocco and Rontondi, juggling long strips of spaghetti over the oven; but most interesting of all was Nicholas Fausto, with an apron tied about his middle, drying dishes. | returned to the deck to see the glare of the Statue of Liberty, but no sooner had I reached the rail than I heard a familiar voice telling in a loud pitch of a great deed its owner had performed. Seated on a coil of rope, and dressed in a short sailor jacket, was Abe Wohl, still shouting about himself. I retired for the night, but, being thirsty, pushed a button for a porter and, to my surprise, the door opened. Sammy Kalb stood before me, dressed all in white. These surprises were enough for one day, so I turned in. During the night a storm came up, and I felt so sick that I rang for a physician. In walked the ship's doctor, Mr. Fogle, followed by a nurse, who proved to be Lillian Offen. With their gentle treatment I came around all right and was quite able to view the performance which was in store for the following day. By that time the storm had abated somewhat, but the heavy weather kept the people indoors. In the afternoon the performance was staged and Í took my place in the audience. The curtain was raised and short-legged Ernest Porter waltzed on the stage with his seven-foot wife, Eleanor Mendel, and an abun- dance of ancient eggs came from all directions. They made a very striking pair. When the ship came within sight of land we pre- pared to go ashore. The customs officers were very rough, and the English bobbies were horrid, but my face lighted up when I saw a familiar bobbie leaning up against a lamppost. As I passed him I recognized Rus Torrey reading an English grammar. Thirty years had passed but Torrey's interest in English had not passed. Shine! Shine! was the cry that drowned the noise of the rattling vehicl es, and then I beheld Wil- liam Morgenstern on his knees, using the polish freely. Hurrying to the station, I bought my ticket and boarded a train for London. As I was sitting near the window waiting for the train to depart, I noticed a tattered individual picking up papers. On close in- spection it proved to be Joe Fingerhut. Little had we ever thought that Joe would stoop to such things. After a ride of an hour we pulled into the great metropolis. I immediately set out for a first-class hotel. There in the vestibule, gray with age, was Le Roy Stein selling pasteurized milk chocolate s. Conversing with him, I learned that a great suffrage parade was due about this time, and from the sound of a big bass drum I knew it couldn't be far away. Sure enough, down the street paraded William Lif- shutz at the head of a column, carrying a banner. He

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Max's Central Service training came in handy, any- way. At Niagara, I viewed the famous horse-shoe falls Írom the power station. And, would you believe it, there I saw Frances Hiebel enjoying a belated but pleasant honeymoon. From Niagara to New York was a pleasant trip. mainly because Harry D`Giovanni was conductor oÍ the train. | reached New York in time for supper and after wards went to see the Passing Show of 1947. Ir the vestibule ticket office was Abe Slominger, now a famous theatrical knew his well, for in the course of the evening I saw he had selected as his stars Florence Walling, Loretta Sie- fried and Margery Witheridge, who were making a great hit in spite of their some show, believe your Daddy Time. manager. | le business age. [t was After a pleasant evening, I wended my way toward Newark, via the Tubes. The strong arm gang were on duty: the two inseparable chums, Rose and Harriet, with pails and scrub brushes, were doing their duty to a soiled window. Newark reached at last, I hopped into a jitney operated by Sam Horrowitz. When I got off at my street, I handed him a quarter. He gave me thirty cents change. Fine figuring, Sam, fine figuring, I thought. About to enter my home, I was stopped by two ladies, whom I recognized as the Misses Howard and Heid. Both were old maids, and from their talk I gathered that they were running a dairy somewhere near Hackettstown, N. I W | asked my wife to entertain these ladies as best she could, and retired early, to dream of old times at Central. THE CENTRAL SERVICE CLUB | үт b 4.