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

Page 21 text:

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aps--- 0100011 ید ہزنہ بے ے جج بر malos [lr [ji od pa a‏ امو اه oe فا‎ aS eee Door gen ت‎ veve i اف‎ rn E E EE - li was dusk. I was slowly wending my way homeward, my mind filled with thoughts of gradua- tion. And then after graduation, I reflected, what? I could already see, in my mind’s eye, the white- clad girls and seemingly unruffled boys, on the eve of graduation. I was imagining the coveted diploma already in my hand, the music, the fond friends and relatives, the scent of flowers— “Hands up!” came a gruff voice. I came back to earth with a bang. My blood seemed to congeal, my voice stuck in my throat. A gentle rap on the head—then bells, clanging, banging bells—myriads of stars— The turf seemed to rise and hit my head. Loud jangling music which grew softer—softer— then blackness. xe A +$ os “n ےہ‎ $ The tinkling of a bell. I felt some one gently awakening me. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes to see my maid standing at my bedside. She handed me a card which read: DOROTHY MULGRAVE, EDITOR OF THE “MORNING MOON.” I looked about me. . It was my frst morning in Metriopolis, whence I had come to get atmosphere for my new novel, “Burnt Orange and Henna.” I observed that the day was just breaking. How like the busy Dot to choose 5:30 as a calling hour. I rushed in, overjoyed to see her. There she stood, portfolio and books in one hand, umbrella and sundry other articles fiercely clutched in the other. “Hello, Vi,” she said. “I'm in a great hurry. I have to drop in at the office at 6, before copy goes to press. l am due at a directors' meeting at 7:30; at 8 I must address a school on newspaper work; at 9 I kave— ” “Stop!” I cried. “Tell me some news. you seen any June 21's lately?” ° , Oh. yes. A good many of them have settled right here in Metriopolis. I don't often take a day off, but for old time's sake I'll show you around the town and we can visit some Centralites.” Have Knowing from past experience that, barring aero- planes, racing cars and the like, Dot could cover more ground in one day than any other known human agency, I consented to go with her, though I could picture myself bedraggled and weary at the end of the day. In several minutes I joined Dot, and after she had ‘phoned her private secretary, Joseph Powers, his in- structions for the day, we set out. We made our first stop at Lamont Calder's church, where that young man was conducting special serv- ices. I learned that the advent of this blond young pastor was marked by the increasingly regular at- t endance of the fair sex, who were no longer bored by the sermons. Few knew that the brown-eyed young lady, seated in the first pew, gazing at the pulpit with such rapt attention, was Mrs. Calder, formerly known as Albertina Frank. I noticed Hazel Stadelhofer and Genevieve Praiz- ner in the choir. “The secular atmosphere had evi- dently not had a chastening effect on Hazel, who winked at me as I passed. We next visited a place of an utterly different character, namely, the studios of the Sobstuff Film Co., of which Jack Wohlreich was president. In the first studio 1 saw Alwina Kays and Evelyn Wex- ler, who were co-starring in the tear-impelling drama, “Sisterly Love,” in seven parts, shrieking and glaring at each other. Alwina demanded an orchid limousine for the elopement scene, while Evelyn held out for jade, which, she felt sure, would be more striking in the picture. Maurice Turkinitch, the director, was pacing the floor and crying out with a despairing gesture, “You tell 'em, com flakes, I'm grape nuts,” but 1 hurried on. In the rear of the building, where the properties were stored, was Herbert Shapiro, seated on top of a barrel, eagerly perusing the “Want Ads” column. “S' matter, Herbie?” I asked. “Oh, I'm just looking to see if some telegraph company needs a president,” he responded.