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

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Islands, a picnicking rendezvous about half a mile from the shore. When one is with a person who is very interesting, one very seldom pays much attention to time or place. So it was with Bart. [Inexperienced mariner as he was, he paid little or no heed to aught else but his companion. He did not notice that the riplets of the river had increased in size; he did not heed the increas- ing force of the wind; he did not see the gathering grayness of the heavens; he was too engrossed in the tinkling melody of Jean's chatter; he was too happy. Bart had related his discussion with Fred, and their mirth echoed over the water. Suddenly, without a moment’s warning, ihe sky became black and the wind rose, lashing the waves into a fury. Involuntarily, Jean screamed, and be- fore Bart could lower his sail the force of the wind tore it out of his hands. Jean had been sitting facing him. The short boom swung around, caught her squarely in the chest and threw her into the whirling water. Dumbfounded and filled with consternation, Bart seized his helm and tried in vain to bring the craft around in the face of the wind. But with every minute it was carried further down stream by the current. The blow had rendered her partly unconscious, but the coldness of the water had somewhat restored her sense. Seeing her predicament, she went into a coma. Panic-stricken, Bart rose at the risk of capsizing the boat. Не tore the upright mast from its mooring and with it tried to reach Jean; but she was out of reach. His face blanched, he eyes burned as his throbbing brain seemed to pulse against them. It was too late for self-reproach or remorse, it was too late; for wish- ing could not bring Jean back to him. Even as he knelt in the boat and reached out his arms to her cry- ing hopelessly, Jean! Jean! Не saw her sink. A groan of anquish escaped from his. lips, and with a cry that might have been a curse, that might have been a prayer. he flung himself into the water that had metamorphosed from its placid gentleness to roaring ferocity. For several moments, Bart beat the water with his hands. Everything about him seemed black. Не struck out in Jean's direction. А great depression seized him. Years seemed to pass, and what was that people said about your reviewing your life while’ you were drowning? He wondered when he would start. He wondered what he would think. There was something he was holding. He wondered why he held so tightly. Vaguely he imagined he was hold- ing on to the boat. And in his other arm there was something too. From the distance, a great, great dis- tance, he could hear voices. What were they saying? What did they mean? Не wished they would tum out that gleaming light ; Bart opened his eyes with a start. Dazedly he looked about him. It was his bed, it was his room, and here sitting beside him was Jean. Не blinked, trying to shake off a stupor which seemed to envelop him. Jean was smiling, and as he moved to speak she reproved it by placing her fingers gently upon his lips. “The doctor said you are to be kept absolutely quiet, he warned him. But what happened? demanded Bart, ignoring Jean's admonition. Why, don't you remember? replied Jean. “After I fell into the river you jumped in after me and held on to the boat until Fred arrived with the launch. You saved my life!” “I saved your life? faltered Bart. At this point the door opened softly and Fred walked in. Yes! You saved Jean's life, he vouchsafed. “At the same time you almost drank up the whole River Shaset. It was lucky that you told me you were going on the river with Jean. When the storm broke loose and you had not returned, 1 became worried and went out in a motor launch with Jean's father.” “Yes, Bart, dear, Jean added warmly, as she pressed his hand. “Dad says your the bravest fellow ever. But, Jean, protested Bart weakly, how could I ever have saved you? Why. 1 г “That's just и! exclaimed Fred, his eyes beam- ing. He can't swim, Jean! I'll say he's the bravest ever!” Bart blushed to the roots of his hair. “Bunk!” he murmured. SPRING By Daisy Eskowitz The birds above our heads do sing, So happy, gay, and bright, For now it is the Dawn of Spring With Sunshine’s welcome light. Bleak Winter with her frost and snow Is off to her home—away— And with love our hearts are filled, In the merry month of May. The flowers surround us—in—bloom— With a fragrance too sweet to explain, And the love notes of birds as they sing to their mates, Seem too sweet and too rare to retain.

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— ы x Lei A Bay ercival ! Percival Humphrey! Percival Humphrey Reginal Jones!” shouted Lucille, his ador- ing wife, to the figure that was slowly descending their brown stone steps in the heart of the city. “Yes, love, he called as he turned around. “Will you go to the library with me when you get home this afternoon?” Lucille asked. Certainly, sweetheart, he said. One more kiss, and off he went for five hours of work, and then. Ah! He would see Lucille again. The hours rolled on. At 2:30 P. М. his figure bounded up his steps. He thrust himself into the house. But! Where was Lucille? “Dearest Percival: Have gone to Chinatown to buy an oriental din- ner gong for Aunt Julia. Sorry about the Library. “Lucille.” “Lucille to Chinatown,” he gasped. Oh! What shall he do? Chinatown where murderers lurked, daggers flew, drunkards abounded, opium dens flour- ished! His precious Lucille was there. Oh! He must save her. Hatless he dashed toward Chinatown. The streets grew narrower and dirtier. Everywhere there was a gloomy, evil orienetal aspect. What did he care? He must find Lucille. Ah! There was the shop where they sold oriental dinner gongs. Probably his Lu- cille was there. He scanned the place. No—but yes—there was a woman sitting with her back toward him at the farther end of the shop. Only her black hair showed. Let’s see. Did Lucille have black hair? Yes! It must be she. At last she was safe. He dashed over to her and cried, “Lucille.” Horrors! Not his blue-eyed beautiful Lucille, but a squint-eyed, yellow-faced Chinese woman. With a grasp in his throat he fled from the shop. Maybe someone at this moment was thrusting a dagger into Lucille’s throat. She was now probably a corpse, bloody and cold. Oh! Не must find her, dead or alive. So in and out of the gloomy alleys he wanders. Suddenly a blood-curling shriek rent the air. It come from the building at his side. It must be Lu- | нашли | H. R. 202 A. M. | HON. PERCIVAL HUMPHREY REGINALD JONES cille, his precious! They were probably murdering her. Up the filthy steps he bounded. Another shriek came from the door in front of him. “Oh, God! Don't let them kill her, he prayed. He burst into the room. “Lucille, my darl No Lucille met his eyes. Only evil-eyed Chinks were squatting on the floor smoking opium. Where is she? he cried. A gun was raised toward him. behind. Where is she? | heard her shriek, my darling Lucille, Percival explained. “I gave dat shriek,” a grinning Chink replied. Melican man al'ays wanta be here. He hear a shriek. He try save shrieker. We shriek when Melican man pass house. Melican man rush in to save woman. We ask money, по get—we kill him,” was the laconic exp lanation of the Chink between puffs of his pipe. Percival Humphrey Reginald Jones closed his eyes. He had been fooled. His Lucille was not there. Money, or—” the tone was suggestive. Percival gulped. The dagger and the pistol were uncom- fortably close. He slowly handed over his wallet, containing half his week's salary. Dazed, he found himself outside on the pavement. There was now no hope for Lucille. Slowly he re- turned home, the tears streaming over his face. He opened the door of his empty house. Wha-a-t! His Lucille—his sunny-eyed beauty stood before him. “АҺ, sweetheart, how glad I am to see you. I had the loviest time this afternoon, she said. ' he gasped. Charlotte called up and invited me to the theatre, so I didn't go to Chinatown. But darling Percival, what has happened? she asked as she beheld his half-dried tears. “No-o-thing, sweetheart, he murmured. Later, turning his empty pockets inside out, “Меуег again, swore the Hon. Percival Humphrey Reginald Jones. EM A dagger from